


killing since 1943

by forgeturself



Series: Pittbull [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Attempt at Humor, BAMF Bucky Barnes, BAMF Metal Arm, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Bucky Barnes-centric, Confused Bucky Barnes, Drama, Drug Abuse, Emotional Manipulation, Improper Use of Pronouns, Insomnia, M/M, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, POV Bucky Barnes, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn, Torture, shamelessly quoting CATFA and CATWS and CACW and maybe other movies, so be prepared for whiplash, the author couldn’t decide if hurt or humor, they have other problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-09-30 14:10:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10164662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forgeturself/pseuds/forgeturself
Summary: When Steve realizes what’s happening, he doesn’t push Bucky away, doesn’t get on his feet, neither runs nor fights. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.” Tears flow over his cheeks when he blinks.“No!” Bucky presses down on his throat. Snarling, spit flying from his lips as he talks, face distorted with rage. “Nonono, you don’t get to be sorry! You don’t get to abandon your best friend and feel sorry about it.”or: The Winter Soldier thinks he’s Bucky Barnes. The asset just really wants to come in from the cold. The Arm does what it wants.





	1. find and kill Captain America

**Author's Note:**

> Excuses: First fanfiction, non-native speaker, no beta, too much research for too little accuracy, author has never been to the US, the author's knowledge about Manhattan consists of Google Maps and Prototype, author has no idea of Russia or Russian, google translate ftw, author has never read a Marvel comic, author has no idea of computer languages  
> Self-indulgent asf. You’ve been warned.  
> Every kudo or comment would mean the world to me, pls be gentle.
> 
>  _Italic_ : memories  
>  ~~Crossed out~~ : happening subconsciously  
>  **Bold** : emphasized words in direct speech or similar  
> hover for translation  
> alternatively, translations can be found in the end notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is why the asset can’t have good things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> suggested songs:  
> ["Lonely Hearts Club" by Marina and the Diamonds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=boA8sRT4JPU)  
> ["It's a Sin" by Hidden Citizens](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PP7IxnP5Wik)

  


* * *

 

He’s alive.  ~~ It’s okay. ~~

He’s alive.  ~~ It didn’t kill him. ~~

He’s alive. ~~ It made sure of that before it left him on the riverbank. ~~

  


* * *

 

The asset doesn’t even last three days.

~~It needs, it needs, it needs to find and kill Captain America.~~

_There is nothing to need unless your handler tells you to. A weapon does not need anything._

~~ But it needs and needs and ~~ Needs.

It needs to see him. Needs to make sure he didn’t succumb to his wounds. Needs to make sure he’s not suffering. ~~ He can’t take care of himself. He is so small and weak, gets sick so easily. He needs someone to look after him, to nurse him back to health. To feed him, keep him warm and safe. ~~

  


* * *

 

The asset tries to smother those thoughts, knows it’s not thinking straight. There is nothing to need, nothing to want. Only the drugs are wearing off and there should be something else it has to do to stay sane.

Something like closing eyes and resting… sleeping? But its eyes won’t close no matter how hard it tries. And shouldn’t it be cold? The asset only sleeps when it’s cold.

Something to do with a mouth, chewing things and swallowing. Eating food. But what is food?

The asset observed other people in the city, walking around in bright daylight following their daily routine. Breathing, talking, drinking, eating. It tried their kind of food only once. Some bread with greens and cheese but it didn’t take long and the asset stood retching and choking in an abandoned alley. The nausea forcing the barely digested lumps out again. At least it knows now why it has no memory of eating like people do, it’s obviously not something a weapon is capable of since its stomach is hurting and throat burning with acid.

~~_“Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone on Coney Island?”_~~

~~_“Yeah, and I threw up?”_~~

It leaves the asset cold and weak, trembling ~~ and nervous ~~ . Thoughts tumbling around in its head, it’s too hard to concentrate on anything really. And for some time the static is just a pleasant buzzing helping to ignore the weakness and the pain in its body. Until the thoughts start circling back to the man left on the riverbank. It’s like the pull of a drain, every drop of water following gravity to one fixed point in its brain where he lies on the wet gravel, cold waves lapping at his feet. His eyes closed, his face broken and his clothes soaked in blood, so much blood… It needs to see him.

_The Asset does not need. The Asset does not want._

Well, the asset does not care. It needs to see him!

~~Needs to find and kill Captain America.~~

  


* * *

 

The asset knows perfectly well that searching for the man is not a great plan. In fact it’s a plain stupid most likely suicidal idea. It will be hard to find him, hopefully, since Hydra will be searching for him too as he is an easy target in his vulnerable state. And even if the asset finds him, it will most likely have to walk into a place guarded by agents who are not only trained and skilled, but also want the asset dead or at least contained.

But this is exactly what the asset was made for. Evading capture, finding people and, okay, also killing them. And wasn’t that the mission in the first place?

_Eliminate Captain America, level 6 target, artificially enhanced physiology, accelerated healing factor, Master Martial Artist and Marksman_ ~~ _and self-sacrificing idiot._ ~~

Or something like that? So if anybody asks, the asset is just following orders and there is really no need for punishment or recalibration.

As soon as the asset thinks of this great, great plan as the Mission it gets easier, thoughts clicking into place, focusing on the important things  ~~ like blue eyes and golden hair ~~ like keeping itself functional. Breathing and drinking isn’t the problem, but the body healing its wounds consumes even the last energy reserves. And if food is out of the question, maybe that’s what the drugs were for. The asset knows how humans work, they need drugs too. It’s the fifth random alley behind some building named Star ~~buck~~ s where a very friendly woman tells the asset when and where it can find a dealer, without prompting.

“You look like you need it. Just tell her, Claire the Chair sent you. Might be I get a free flight next time.” She winks at the asset and takes a deep draw from her cigarette.

Her codename seems suspicious, but she’s not the enemy, she’s didn’t lie. So when the asset steals a sizable amount of amphetamines it doesn’t tell who sent it here.

It’s not as good as the drugs Hydra had since those had been specially designed for the asset. But it won’t complain as it finally stops constantly sweating and shivering.

Onto the next step: The internet is so helpful. And a total mess with the amount of encrypted data the Black Widow dumped onto it. It takes some patience to find, access and decrypt the information needed. A SHIELD owned hospital in D.C., no official records but top-notch doctors and equipment. The information is outdated of course and it takes even more time to hack directly into the database now belonging to the FBI where the asset is finally rewarded with the medical file of one  ~~ Steven Grant Rogers ~~ complete with a far too long list of past injuries. And more importantly photos and detailed description of his current wounds and healing process. Documented like he’s a lab rat. A very, very valuable ~~ , stubborn ~~ and unique lab rat. He’s alive and surprisingly healthy all things considered but hasn’t woken up so far. He’s fed partially via IV and maybe that’s the stuff to go for these days? Can’t throw up when your stomach is empty anyway.

The asset leaves the workstation after it is finished. If someone traced the attack, they won’t be too surprised when in leads to the Pentagon. And if they think it was Hydra and they need to up their security around Captain America then that’s definitely a good thing they should do anyway.

Maybe it should leave some dramatic message when it visits the hospital. Like a knife right next to the head of their precious Captain. A knife he could also use to defend himself. Maybe a gun would be better, requiring less strength and proximity. Or two guns! Two guns are always better than one.

It wonders briefly why it ever needed a handler to tell it what to do, while itself has just the best ideas.

  


* * *

 

When it gets on the subway the drugs already started to wear off and everything is even worse than before. The asset needs to concentrate to avoid attention but it’s a futile attempt. In the end it slips up, starts to tremble and sway, visible even to the untrained eyes of civilians.

A passenger looks at it, concerned, considering.  ~~ [query_update:positive] ~~ The asset doesn’t look like the Winter Soldier anymore, with civilian clothes and the hoodie hiding the metal arm, but even a long shower can’t improve the dark rings under its eyes, the sickly paleness of its skin or the sheen of sweat on its forehead. It probably looks like a junky gone cold turkey – which is exactly what the asset is.

“Excuse me. Hello.” ~~[query_update:positive]~~

The asset has to blink a few times to focus on the person standing before it, talking at it.

“Are you alright? Do you need help?” the man asks nothing but polite concern on his face.

It takes a moment to process the words and come up with an answer, in English. It wouldn’t be the first time the asset spoke unknowingly in the wrong language. “Yeah, no. ’m alright, thank you. On my way to an appointment with the doctor actually. Just a little nervous, ’s all.” Really not the best excuse, the asset scolds itself, but on the other hand it’s at least half true.

It tries a polite smile and forces itself to stand normally, suppressing another shiver and readjusting his grip on the bar. Because polite is better than angry, it won’t make the person go away as fast but it will make the asset less memorable.

However the man is still watching, so maybe it should have gone with a more aggressive, stoned junky cover. People tend not only to dislike them but also don’t give a shit about them.

Tensing when it feels more eyes on it, it buries the metal hand deeper in the front pocket of the grey hoodie. It wants them to go away, killing would make them go away.

“ _Kill them and this stops.”_

No, they are only innocent (?) civilians, living their lives, offensive to him by only existing, bumping into him occasionally without malice. Sadly that’s not good enough a reason to kill them. ~~ [query_update:positive] ~~ It’s just paranoia it tells itself. If it could just sit down for a minute to gather its thoughts. Take a deep breath, close its eyes a little while, wrap its arms around itself  ~~ and let sleep take over, so maybe he will dream about Steve. Falling to his death. ~~ no. No! The asset is not allowed to rest as long as there is a Mission to complete.

  


* * *

 

At the next opportunity the asset gets off the subway though it’s not the stop it had planned. It just needed to get out of that  ~~ damn ~~ train with all the people watching it, observing it ~~ , with the wind howling in his ears and the white, white snow. ~~

It will have to walk the rest of the way, good thing his Mission isn’t running away. The night is cool and silent, less people to avoid which is nice because it doesn’t have to suppress the shivering constantly. Somewhere there is music playing  ~~ with a beat made for dancing. And his  ~~ thoughts start to wander ~~ to  ~~ ~~ _girls in nice dresses, laughing and twirling around. And Steve standing up from the couch to_ ~~ _turn the volume of the radio up,_ ~~ _smiling, because he knows how much Bucky likes this song._ ~~ It gets really, really hard to concentrate, no coherent thoughts, but  ~~ pictures ~~ and sounds and  ~~ smells ~~ racing through its brain. It feels like the asset is slowly losing consciousness with the world spinning out of frame, turning dark and grey. Cold blood rushing through its ears, drowning every sound  ~~ but his memories ~~ , and maybe that saves it when the asset can’t really make out the word “Спутник”.

Though it definitely feels the electricity shocking its body, forcing it on its knees. Teeth clattering hard while it spits blood onto the asphalt. It curls in on itself, whimpering silently, when its muscles stop cramping up and it can control its body again. This is really  ~~ frustrating ~~ since a little shock like that would barely slow it down on a good day. But this? Its vision darkening, its hearing fading in and out – this is bad. The asset so weak and vulnerable, it should have just checked itself in.

~~[query_update:positive]~~

“Доклад миссии, солдат.“

This is a scene the asset knows too well. Still trembling it gets onto its knees and crosses its hand behind its head. It doesn’t look up, it’s not allowed, but it also doesn’t need to. It can hear them breathing, cloth ruffling due to slight movements, sweaty fingers gliding nervously over guns and stun batons. Three behind him, three in front of him and probably one or two snipers on the roofs.

“в погоне за Captain America. цель: найти и убить.” it obeys in its most obedient voice.

Silence.

“So, what did he say?” another voice asks excitedly.

~~ Are they fucking serious…? ~~

“He’s currently hunting Captain America. He’s going to kill him.”

“Great! So he didn’t go rogue after all.”

“Eh, guys, did we just interrupt the Winter Soldier on his mission?” mentions a timid third voice.

“Nono, hold on.” The woman, who seems to be the only one who knows Russian, speaks up again. “Just look at him. He needs medical attention. He won’t stand a chance against Captain America.”

~~ He could be a tiny, fluffy butterfly and Steve would let him tickle him to death. ~~

“где Captain America?” she wants to know.

“171 Lake Washington Boulevard.” ~~Huh, wrong Washington. Definitely wrong mission.~~ But they don’t know that. They can’t know how close the Captain really is. Killing makes people forget things.

“Did you get that?” a man asks thrilled into his comm. “Oh, it’s not… Yeah okay… Yeah we’ll bring him in.” ~~Well, shit.~~

“Вставаи. За мной.” The woman orders.

And if that isn’t the right cue.

The asset staggers onto its feet, ignoring how the world tilts to the side. It takes tentative steps towards the woman and as soon as it’s close enough it jumps, grabs for her gun with the metal hand, doesn’t bother that she’s still holding onto it while it fires. Five headshots in a heartbeat and five corpses on the ground.

The asset nods “Good job, agent.” and lets go of her crushed hand only to break her neck.

Suddenly a shot rings through the night and pain blossoms in its chest.

Right, sniper.  ~~ That’s what you get for joking around. ~~ The asset grits its teeth and moves, evading the next bullet by a long shot. Picking up another gun, it provides its own cover fire, two shots being enough to guess their location. Though the asset didn’t expect the literal brick wall it runs into while firing.

~~ Ouch, no, not the face. ~~ It groans in pain  ~~ and frustration ~~ . Facial wounds are just the worst for undercover operations. Blood is running down its forehead and into its eye, as if the day wasn’t bad enough already. The Asset vanishes around the corner, into the alley, out of the snipers sightlines, and takes a moment to gather its breath. Fingers feeling over skin finding a nasty laceration just under the hairline. It will heal in a few hours, the bullet wound on the other hand is a real problem on top of all the other problems. For a moment the asset wishes it could switch places with Captain America, so it would be the one idling in a cozy hospital bed and he would be out here searching, fighting and running. It sighs, no that wouldn’t be right, but maybe they could  ~~ both just lie in bed. Fat, lazy and save. ~~ No, get it together, follow the Mission, get to the hospital.

  


* * *

 

Great. Sewers. Most beautiful sewers the asset has ever seen as far as it can remember. It’s not so bad, it has been in Hydra bases that smelled far worse ~~ , full of prisoners wasting away in their own filth ~~ . It’s not like the Captain ~~ , Steve, ~~ will turn the asset away because it reeks. He has far better reasons than that like it being a remorseless mass murderer and shaping nearly a whole  ~~ bloody, fucking ~~ century for Hydra.  ~~ The Winter Soldier - Killing innocent people since 1945. ~~ Or that the asset doesn’t function without tailor-made drugs in its system. Or that it doesn’t believe in order through pain. But maybe the Captain will agree on that  ~~ since he’s not Hydra…? ~~ since he is unquestionably beyond doubt NOT Hydra.  ~~ Who would even think that?! Ridiculous! Steve would never! ~~

~~Steeeeve. He misses him so much.~~

The asset does most definitely not sob. The sound must be the sewage splashing into its boots. There’s just a bullet lodged in its chest, no such thing as heartache.

  


* * *

 

After breaking into a building right next to the hospital the asset takes a well-deserved shower and steals some ill-fitting clothing which will be changed into scrubs soon enough. It decides to mostly ignore the wound in its chest until it can find a pair of tweezers to get the bullet out.

Getting inside.  
Scrubs.  
Tweezers.  
Bandages.  
Drugs.  
IV.  
Captain America.  
~~A cool beer, or two.~~

The list gets longer with every minute.  ~~ Why is Steve at the end of the list? ~~ At least the asset has its priorities straight and in the right order  ~~ if he turns the list around. ~~

The building the asset is already in was a good choice. It’s taller than the hospital and only separated by a small street.

Up on the roof it makes the jump the first try. It isn’t too bad that it tripped while taking a run-up, if it only gets the landing right.

The asset tumbles over the roof arms flaying wildly, skin scraping on the rough sheeting.

~~“ Fuuuuck”,~~ it groans while it catches its breath lying dazed and defenseless on the ground. Both wounds opened up again and its new clothes are now covered in blood and dirt. Just great.

Operation: “undercover as a beat-up junky in a high security facility” is a go!

  


* * *

 

It’s an easy process for the metal arm to disable the alarm and cameras and to rip the door open.

~~[initiating code_triage_internal process…]~~

And there seems to be now some very staff intensive medical emergency a few floors down from where the Captain sleeps. The arm is really the best, even though Hydra made it. Then again, the asset was made by Hydra too, so they are just the same. Only the arm doesn’t shiver, doesn’t hunger, doesn’t fail. It should have a name, like Excalibur or Gungir.  ~~ “ ~~ ~~ _The new Fist of Hydra_ ~~ ~~.” ~~ The Arm is practically the asset’s very own sidekick or sidepunch? Always there in a pinch, always loyal and just so, so useful. The day the asset loses the Arm,  ~~ it hopes it will be Steve’s fault, so he will feel guilty about it and try to make up for it for years. Rubbing his feet, opening doors for him, cooking nice food, reading him bedtime stories about the Adventures of Captain America and his Howling Commandos. ~~

Did the asset hit his head? What  ~~ the fuck ~~ is wrong with it?! It rubs over the pounding wound on its forehead. It’s already scabbed over nicely but it doesn’t help with the straight thinking at all. What was the plan?

~~Getting inside.~~  
Scrubs.  
Tweezers.  
Bandages.

…wait. Did the asset just leave an open door for even the most amateurish Hydra assassin to walk into the hospital where the Captain is asleep and vulnerable?

It turns around and runs up the stairs again only to find the open door laughing at it, when it won’t close again. With an angry snarl the asset wrenches the door shut so the metal distorts and is wedged immovable into the frame. It dusts off his hands and nods satisfied.

Onto the next step:  ~~ Captain America. ~~ blending in.

Scrubs are easy enough to find and the best thing is, they still carry some body temperature from the last owner.

It raids a cabinet of painkillers and doesn’t scorn some syringes filled with adrenalin. To potentially counter any tranquillizer it'll be shot with. Next are tweezers and bandages.  ~~ Can’t visit your best friend with a bullet in your body. ~~ The asset’s flesh hand trembles  ~~ embarrassingly ~~ while the Arm searches more or less blindly for the slippery bullet. Several times the tweezers slip out of the metal grip and tear new gashes into the flesh. Well the Arm wasn’t design to be a professional surgeon and there is just so much blood covering everything one can hardly tell where the wound ends and where it begins. At least it doesn’t hurt. In fact nothing is hurting anymore since it choked the whole stack of painkillers down  ~~ like unrationed candy. ~~ Finally the bullet comes out and the asset can clean, disinfect and bandage the wound properly. It puts the scrubs back on and stands up. But the world won’t budge. It tries again, this time grabbing onto the sink with numb hands. The flesh caves but the Arm holds and lifts the asset slowly onto its feet. It stumbles forward, holding onto the wall. Or it’s crawling and grabbing at the floor? There is no way to tell anymore. But, okay, the doors in the corridor are upright, so that’s a good indication the asset is, too. It blinks and there are no doors anymore and the corridor all white, all bright and clean and endless. And there is water dripping,  _drip drip drip_ , and the walls are sneaking closer, snuggling up.  ~~ White sheets covering a small body. ~~

~~“ _I’m sorry, Mrs. Rogers, he is very sick. He might… He might not last the night.”_~~

~~ A flag covering a corpse. ~~ A sad song drifts through the corridor, a shield clatters to the ground.

“ _I’m not gonna fight you.”_

_Metal creaking dangerously, explosions shaking the ship. They are falling down and the wind is_ ~~ _howling, howling. Drip drip drip snow falling,_ ~~ _water crashing over their heads._

Oh, no. This is bad. The asset can feel the memories piling up, preparing to flood its mind thousand fold for every time it managed to suppress them before.

_Drip drip drip. There is blood on the walls. Blood on teeth. Gunshots in the far distance. Corpses, so many corpses, watching, judging. Smoke in lungs, death in the air._

~~“ _Your precious Captain_~~ _will never come to save you.”_

~~“ _You’ve known me your whole life.”_~~

All is white and all is bright and there is  _snow on the ground_ , ice pouring through veins. Skin touches cold and the asset flinches away from  _the train racing through the mountains_ .

~~“ _Put him on ice.”_~~

~~“ _He has been out of cryo-freeze for too long.” “Then_~~ _wipe him and start over.”_

“ _You’re my mission!”_

The asset gasps for air, pawing at the floor feebly. Nonononono, this can’t be happening. There is too much, far too much. It hurts, everything hurts and nothing makes sense.  _Metal in his hand, a gun trained on a child’s head, fire in the streets_ _._ ~~ _Screaming,_ ~~ ~~ screaming, the asset is screaming. ~~

Complete the Mission and everything will be alright. Nothing will hurt, the asset can fall asleep in the ice. Nothing to think about, nothing to care about, no one to kill.

There’s a syringe in its hands, a needle in its flesh, thumb pressing down. Adrenaline flooding the dried up veins, burning through the ice and bringing pain, pain, pain.

_The Asset does not feel pain._

“ _The procedure has already started.”_

~~“ _Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.”_~~ “SHUT UP!”  _“You’re my friend.”_

Pain to focus on. Grounding, real, distracting.

There is water on its face, running hot over its cheeks, dripping  ~~ _drip drip drip_ ~~ onto the floor.

The curtain closes again. It’s silent in its head, in the corridor, it’s empty.  ~~ All white, all bright like snow so cold. ~~

The pictures, the voices fading slowly away replaced by soothing static. Colorless grey in grey.

The asset sighs resigned while picking itself up. Still groggy but strangely alert. Its mental state must be so much worse than it thought.  ~~ _“You’re my mission!”_ ~~ Ah, sweet, sweet silence.

There is only one last thing left to do to finish the Mission: To find  ~~ and kill ~~ Captain America.

  


* * *

 

The adrenalin yields barely a minute of reprieve, but it’s enough to slip the security system unnoticed and finally find the right room.  ~~ When the door opens under its clumsy hands the asset finds it still has a heart. A heart which has now shriveled up, turned to stone and died. ~~

~~There is a corpse lying on plane marble, covered by a flag and a shield, white roses all around, blood blooming on the floor. And Bucky is smiling.~~

The asset stares at the still closed door in front of it, lets its body slowly lean against it, releasing a shaky breath. On the other side lies the end of the Mission.

_Eliminate Captain America, level 6 target._

“ _And I need you to do it one more time.”_

_Find and_ ~~ _kill. Find and kill. Find and_ ~~ _kill, kill, kill Captain America._

“ _Then finish it._ ~~ _Cause I'm with you 'til the end of the line._~~ _”_

Great, more of those memories. The asset huffs tiredly and feels the last energy draining away. Sliding down the door its body folds up like a puppet, hands falling limp to the side, eyes never closing but nevertheless unseeing. Coming here was such a dumb idea. The Mission is stupid.

_The Asset exists only for the mission. The mission is everything, the Asset is nothing._

See? This is why the asset can’t have good things.

  


* * *

 

„ _Want some milk?“_

~~_Do I look like a baby to you?_ ~~

“ _The timetable has moved. Our window is limited.”_

~~_Get. To the fucking. Point. Young man._ ~~

„ _Two targets, level six.“_

~~_Hopefully they’ll put up a fight._ ~~

“ _They already cost me Zola.”_

█▄■, █▄█■, ▄█▄█▄█▀ █▄■ ▄ █▄? █▄ ▄▄█▄ ▄ █■█. █████!

“ _I want confirmed death in ten hours.”_

  


* * *

 

“ ~~I’m sorry, Steve.~~ I can’t do this.”

~~“Why not?”~~

~~“’M afraid, I’ll kill you.”~~

~~ A sad laugh. ~~ “Don’t worry. You’re doing fine.”

~~“ Just what I wanna hear, Stevie. You’re a great hallucination. Should do that professionally.”~~

~~“You’re not hallucinating, Bucky.” claims Serious Steve.~~

~~“Go back to the things I want to hear or you’re fired.”~~

~~“ Buck! Snap out of it, come on.~~ Everything’s gonna be okay. Please look at me.”

There is hand on its face and it’s warm and it’s caring. It feels so good the asset nearly cries.

It blinks and looks around.

And suddenly everything is very, very real. The mental bubble made of painkillers’ cotton bursting. The asset is lying on the cold floor, Captain America kneeling by its side and looking down on it. It inhales a shocked breath  ~~ and lifts the Arm, going for his throat, presses down, crushing his windpipe in a heartbeat. ~~

It inhales a shocked breath  ~~ and takes out a gun, shooting him point blank between the eyes. ~~

It inhales a shocked breath and freezes up.

He makes a hurt noise and takes his hand away, frowning with concern and worry. “ ~~ Buck, your skin is far too cold. Let me help you.” ~~

“The asset doesn’t remember you.” It can barely hear its own voice. A whisper, distant and raw ~~from screaming~~.

“The asset what…? Oh, okay. That’s fine. You don’t need to-”

Of course that wasn’t enough to dissuade Captain America.  ~~ Challenge accepted.  ~~ “The asset doesn’t want to remember you.”

“Doesn’t want..?”

~~ No, shit. Nonono, please don’t cry. ~~ The asset hesitates, wrong words, definitely wrong words. “The asset can’t afford to remember you.” it offers tentatively.

“I don’t understand ~~, Buck~~.”

The asset huffs resigned, goes limp and turns its head away  ~~ in shame ~~ . “It doesn’t want to kill you.”

_The Asset does not want._ Yeah, you got that right.

~~ Naturally Stubborn Steve ~~ doesn’t let it go. “What does that have to do with remembering-” Or does he? “You know what, that obviously doesn’t matter right now. You look like death warmed over. You’re going to let me help you and we can talk about it later. Alright?”

Later, like there’s going to be a later. It’s already too difficult being talked to as if the asset were a person. Questions to answer, decisions to make, feelings to ignore. The asset presses its lips together and wishes for Captain America to just disappear so it doesn’t have to deal with him any longer. But beggars don’t ride and really, it’s the asset’s own fault for coming here.

“Come on ~~, Buck~~. We’ve got to at least get you out of the doorway.”

The asset looks up, realizing where it’s actually lying. Yep, best assassin ever. 70 years for Hydra to train a feeble heap of bones and skin to decorate Captain America’s doorstep like a bunch of get well flowers. And it doesn’t end there. “The asset is too weak to get up.” It mumbles  ~~ embarrassed ~~ .

~~ Steve, being the little shit he always is, snorts. ~~ “And you were worried, you might kill me?”

~~He definitely didn’t miss Steve for his sarcasm.~~

“I’m going to touch you so I can help you up, okay?” Captain America asks more serious.

It swallows and carefully suggests “The asset does not recommend physical contact.”

“You’re not gonna make this easy, are you? Can you tell me what the problem with physical contact is then?”

“You’re the enemy.” _You’re my mission._

“This is how Hydra trained you to treat your enemies? Quite polite if I may say so.”

~~ Urgh! Steeeeve, take this seriously. ~~ The asset uses its most menacing glare to make him understand, but Steve just laughs and… oh.  ~~ He laughs ~~ . It physically hurts to suppress the memories that come with the undeniable familiarity. Its vision is blurring and it takes the asset a moment to understand that there are tears in its eyes.

“I’m sorry, ~~Buck~~. I won’t make fun of it again. But we have to move you and I can’t see the problem since I’m obviously much stronger than you right now.”

“I’m armed.” The asset croaks once it trusts its voice again.

The Captain lets his eyes sweep over the asset’s body, considering. “Okay, so maybe disarm yourself?”

“That’s how SHIELD trained you to treat your enemies?” The asset closes its eyes before it can see Steve laugh “You’re not my enemy.” and uses the Arm to carefully get rid of three handguns, two grenades and four of the six knives since it can’t reach the other two in its boots.

“Two of the guns were actually for you.” It remembers to tell him.

“You mean…?”

“To defend yourself. You should keep them.”

The Captain’s look alternates between the discarded weapons and the asset. “Personally I think you’re doing really great with the whole breaking the brainwashing thing.”

The asset scowls at him. “Maybe this is all just pretending so you let your guard down.”

“You’re disarming yourself and giving me weapons, please, tell me more of this intricate plan.” He drawls amused.

“The guns could be rigged to explode.”

The Captain inches the weapons further away with great care. “Well whichever your plan was, you ruined it cause now I’m not going to use them.”

It can only stare at him in disbelief.  ~~ It hurts, but ~~ it’s smart not to trust the asset. That’s what it wanted the Captain to understand in the first place, wasn’t it?

“Now let’s do this. You-” The Captain goes suddenly silent, lifting a finger to his lips, head cocking to the side, chasing a sound the asset can’t hear. Without missing a beat he grabs a gun and a knife and stands up in one fluid motion. He’s only wearing comfortable sweats but with the weapons in his hands and the firm set of his jaw he looks ready to walk into a warzone.

The asset feels sick with tension crashing through its drained muscles. It can practically feel the imminent danger thick in the air it breathes, familiar like an island in a storm. Its body begins to shake violently, torn between being dead beat and the anticipation of an attack. Soon after the Captain leaves its sight the first gunshot rings through the corridor and before the second can be heard the asset has reached for one of the remaining adrenalin boosts and thrusts the needle into its flesh arm. It takes three maddeningly long seconds until the effect kicks in and the asset is able to grab a gun and lift itself from the ground. It feels nothing through the thin, scratchy layer of cotton in its head, the high pitched ringing in its ears making it deaf, every movement from muscle memory only. As soon as the asset would stop in its tracks and think for a second, it would collapse back into a boneless puddle on the floor. But it doesn’t. The asset is a machine, a weapon, designed to be the perfect killer.

It shoots the first three black clad persons that come into sight, the helmets and ballistic vests doing nothing to protect them from the bullets that tear through their necks and shatter their spines. They join the corpses already on the ground while the asset plunges through the corridor to seek cover in the recess of a door.

The Captain has one of the attackers in a tight grip, using them as a shield, and empties his magazine into the ones too slow to take cover. He doesn’t stop but advances blindly further, his human shield jerking with every bullet it takes. His tactic forces the aggressors to abandon their positions leaving them unguarded for the asset to gun down with ease.

After the last black clad body has fallen and the Captain is sure enough to give the all clear he drops the gun and turns around to face the asset.

“You’re up.” He notices with an odd combination of suspicion and relief.

The asset can only release a shaky laugh, clinging to the doorframe with feeble fingers. Its eyes are still roaming over the bodies, searching for a sign of life, shooting two times in quick succession when it sees a hand twitch.

“That one moved.” it croaks something close to an apology for the Captain's startled look. Hoping he will take the hint and drop the subject. The Captain might trust the asset enough to leave his back unguarded in a gunfight but it sure as hell doesn’t trust him enough to tell him, how it’s only standing due to adrenaline boots and that there’s only one left in its pocket.

“Okay.” he drawls uncertain. “So, not to step on your professional pride but I think you kind of lead them here. Hydra must still have a tracker on you.”

Three days ago, when the drugs were still working perfectly, the asset cut no less than four goddamn trackers out of its flesh. Obviously it had been the frequent kind of runaway. So maybe it shouldn’t be surprised to hear there could be even more in its body.

The Captain looks pointedly at the Arm and the asset pouts  ~~ unhappily ~~ , fixing its metal hand with a disappointed look. So much for the reliable Sidekick.

“Leave. The asset will lead them away.” ~~It hurts but it’s the right thing to do. Keep Hydra far away from Steve.~~

But the Captain shakes his head in disagreement.  ~~ “This isn’t the end of the line, pal.” ~~ A confident smile on his lips.

The asset just lowers its head, trying hard to drown the colorful memories assaulting its brain while its vision of reality blurs back into grey and red.  ~~ Blood seeping over the floor, covering everything like a second skin. ~~

“Sam?” when the asset looks up again it sees the Captain with a jacket and a duffle bag over his shoulders, speaking into a phone. “Could you do me a favor and pick a friend and me up at the coffee shop near the hospital? The place we went to this evening.”

~~ [log detail src:sgr_sp: ~~ “…Steve? What time is it?” ~~ ] ~~

It takes a moment to understand that the asset can’t acoustically hear the other side of the conversation like it normally would be able to due to its enhanced senses. But right now there is just blood roaring through its ears  ~~ mixed up with long dead voices. ~~

“About three in the morning. Sorry for waking you up, but it’s really important.”

~~ [log detail src:sgr_sp: ~~ “You alright? I’m on my way. ETE 20 minutes.” ~~ ] ~~

“Thank you, Sam. See you soon.”

The Captain ends the call and looks at the asset, taking in its weakened state. “I saw the empty adrenalin booster.” He remarks discontent. “Do you have any more left?”

When the asset only glares at him though it has no energy left for any spite, he sighs and adds “Just… Don’t use them. The next one could very well kill you. Don’t worry about getting out of here. I’ll take you piggyback ~~ , like you did with your sisters ~~ .”

The asset flinches as pain shoots through its brain again, memories crashing down.  _Children running around laughing._ ~~ _Wind in their hair,_ ~~ _sun in their eyes._ ~~ _It’s in the middle of_ ~~ _summer_ ~~ _and it’s hot outside. Steve hasn’t been sick for a whole month. They are_ ~~ _playing catch_ ~~ _with Bucky’s sisters until Becca falls and gets her_ ~~ _knees all bloody…_

“It physically hurts you to remember.” The Captains gentle voice pulls the asset back into the present. It’s sitting on the floor, covered in cold sweat and panting like it was drowning just a second ago. Lifting its gaze it looks at him with ~~open fear~~ in its eyes. ~~Don’t look at me.~~ Throat working but no sound coming out.

“I’m sorry ~~, Buck~~.” He wants to say more but stops himself, realizing something, sadness ghosting briefly over his face. “We need to leave. Now.” He says determined and closes the distance between them with a few quick steps where he cowers down and reaches out to offer the asset his jacket. “Put that on and climb on my back.”

The asset is too tired to think for itself and those are some pretty appealing orders right now.  ~~ There’s a part of it that has followed this voice its whole life.  ~~ It fumbles a little with the jacket and doesn’t even flinch as the Captain sorts its limps when it just plasters itself to his warm back without any strength. But its brain nearly short circuits, senses overloading with the amount of living being touching it now, muscles working, breathing, shifting skin, pounding blood. It’s a close thing the Arm just winds itself around his bulky shoulders and chest and locks itself in place instead of wandering up further, up to the soft skin of his throat.

When he stands up its head lolls dangerously to the side and the asset has to press its face into his neck even if it has to breathe in his scent now. It brings so many scrambled memories that its thoughts get buried deep under the avalanche, hurting so much it can’t suppress a pained whimper. The ache of the bullet wound pressing up against his hard back long forgotten.

“Just hold on, soldier. We’ll get through this. Together.” He promises, tightening his grip on the asset’s thighs and quickening his steps into a steady jog.

  


* * *

 

The asset is only half aware of the following escape. The fight has escalated into a government funded kind of gang war. They pass many dead bodies, FBI, SHIELD or Hydra, clothed in indistinguishable black. The hospital staff has vanished out of sight, the patients’ rooms all on lockdown. Nothing but an ominous red alarm lightening up the corridors.  ~~ [query_update:positive] ~~ The Captain manages to elude the surviving agents indiscriminately, sneaking around them, taking unlikely routes, even jumping out of a window and covering some distance over the roof to avoid the anticipated guns pointed at every door leading outside. Once he’s on street level he breaks into a run, sidestepping blindly as not to be an easy target and soon enough nobody’s shooting at them anymore.

When the night welcomes them into dark, deserted alleys and the fighting is but a distant echo the Captain slows finally down, breathing heavy with exhaustion by now and turns his head. “Hey, soldier? Still with me?” he asks softly.

~~[030530:15082014:query_update:positive]~~

“Don’t stop. They’re catching up.” It slurs, voice too tired to show the ~~desperation it feels~~ at the back of its mind. It’s not its healthy paranoia speaking, there is somebody close on their heels, Hydra is close. And sure enough, soon after the Captain picks up his speed again, steps not as sure anymore though, he rounds a corner and skids to a halt.

“Steve. It’s just me.” A husky voice identifies her as the Black Widow. _“Civilians threatened. Repeat, civilians threatened.”_

“Natasha? What are you doing here?” His relief is nearly tangible but short lived.

“Making sure you’re not doing anything stupid. So I’m only going to ask you once.” Her words suddenly cold, a gun pointing at them. “Drop him, Steve. He’s dangerous.”

Finally someone in their right mind. The asset starts to loosen its grip but the Captain just holds on tighter. “Make me.” The coldness in his voice in no way inferior to hers. Muscles shifting, readying to fight or flight.

She doesn’t move, for a moment just watching them with calculating eyes before she lowers her gun and shrugs unfazed. “Oh well, I tried. Hawkeye, what’s our status?” Signaling the Captain to follow her while she listens to the other end of her comm. “All clear, let’s go.”

“I asked Sam to pick us up at a coffee shop a few blocks from here.” The Captain informs her whereupon she lifts an eyebrow in disbelief.

“You mean he knows about you and the Winter Soldier eloping?” She relieves him of the duffle bag and falls in step with him.

“I haven’t exactly told him… Eloping? What?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’d do the same if my parents-in-law were Hydra.”

“I did the same since my parents-in-law are Red Room.” Hawkeye suddenly joins them. “Let me tell you, man, Christmas is just the worst when her family visits.”

“At least the gift shopping is easy. Bloody noses for everyone.”

The asset tenses under their seemingly casual banter, assuming it’s only a cover for an upcoming attack. Then again it’s not like it could defend itself, except maybe if it manages to inject itself with the last adrenalin boost, take them by surprise and make a run for it. The Captain might be safe with these people, but the asset definitely isn’t.

The Captain picks up on its distress and says in a low, soothing voice. “It’s okay. Nobody’s going to hurt you. I’ll protect you.”

“The asset can take care of itself.” Is everything the asset can grit through its teeth before a sharp stab of pain in his head forces its throat shut.

~~“ _The thing is,_~~ _you don’t have to._ ~~ _” “It was okay._ ~~ “

“…with him? Is he hurt?”

“There’s a lot wrong with him.”

~~“ _She's next to Dad.”_~~ _“We looked for you after.”_ ~~ _“Shine my shoes.”_ ~~

“He’s remembering things.”

~~“ _Maybe take out the trash.”_~~ _“Put the couch cushions on the floor like when we were kids.”_

“That’s great, Steve, but really not that important right now.”

“No, yes, I mean, I think it hurts him when he remembers something from… before.”

“That’s fucked up man.”

“Okay, but that’s obviously not the only thing. He’s totally out of it.”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t trust me that much.”

“Enough to let you give him a ride through half the city.”

“I didn’t give him much of a choice.” The Captain’s voice is laced with guilt but the buzz of a phone distracts the asset before it can give it much thought.

“That’s probably Sam. Would you get that for me, Nat?”

She gives him a weirdly amused look, fishes the phone out of his pocket and takes the call. “You’ve reached the Rogers’ Residence, Natasha speaking… He’s alright, his hands are just otherwise occupied at the moment… We’re nearly there. I hope you brought the soccer van.” She pockets his phone back. “Sam's already there. How far is it?”

The Captain looks around “About five minutes. We're nearly there.” then “Are you coming with us?”

She just raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him “Where are we going?”

The asset can't see his face but his steps seem suddenly lighter. “Avengers Tower. We need a place to lie low while he recovers.

“You’re going to ask S-” There's a hand effectively stifling his next words and the Black Widow smiling apologetically. “Oooh, righd. The memomy thing.”, Hawkeye mumbles through her palm, eyes wide with understanding.

  


* * *

 

They talk about the asset like it’s not here, like it’s not listening, like an object. The familiarity of it tugs the asset deeper into the warm, dark corners of its thoughts, here it spend so much time it practically feels at home. Its eyes open but unseeing, ears present but deaf, feeling not much more than its own sluggish heartbeat. It’s so cold but there’s no ice, no rest for the wicked. If the Captain abandons it now, it would just collapse to the floor and never move a muscle again.

And that is exactly what happens. Lying on the ground all the asset can see is an ugly night sky, covered in thick clouds illuminated by blind lights. Maybe there are faces too, but they’re nothing more than a blur, vanishing as soon as they appear.

When its body is being moved, its thoughts don’t stay either.

  


* * *

 

_He’s walking through a long, white corridor._

_No, he’s being dragged. He doesn’t want to go, so they just make him. There was never a point in offering resistance._

_He’s in a room, the lights bright, stinging in his dried up eyes. He can’t close them, but should he be able to?_

“ _Sergeant Barnes.”_

_He flinches as he hears the name though the pain never comes. Blood pooling at his fingertips, dropping to the floor._

_The man smiles pleased, revealing his white teeth, long and sharp._

“ _Now tell me again about your childhood. What was New York like?”_

  


* * *

 

Warmth is the first thing the asset feels when it comes back.

The taste in its mouth of burned bones.

Voices dull in its ears like it’s being held under water.

Sightless by a hand forcing its eyes shut.

Weight down by arms circling around, restraining its body.

~~[query_update:negative]~~

Somebody is breathing to its left side so that’s where the Arm aims to strike. And with that the gentleness the asset didn’t realize had been there is replaced by an iron grip, pressing its arms to its sides, holding it down. Metal plates creaking, blue energy humming aggressively but to no avail. Heart pounding in its chest like a hammer, battering forcefully against its rib cage. Its muscles are already exhausted again and it starts to tremble with the effort to free itself.

The asset whimpers  ~~ in desperation ~~ , its eyes open and wild. It’s in the back of a driving car with four probably armed people. The world outside a blurry mesh of black and piercing lights, moving, moving, moving around, giving the asset vertigo. Hands trapping its head, forcing it to look into a face.  ~~ Into a face it remembers. It’s the person Bucky wants to find and kill. Find and kill. Find and Kill Captain America. Find and kill Steve. ~~

Into eyes it remembers.  _Blue like the sky on the most beautiful summer day. Eyes laughing, crying, lost in concentration, sparkling with joy. “You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?“ Blood dripping from its fingertips, drip drip drip._ And the asset cries because it hurts being cut up, skin peeled away layer by layer until the bones glitter white and red, blood flowing in rivers. It hurts like hell and that is where it is.

“ _Tell me about your childhood.”_

“Please. I don’t want to hurt anymore.” it sobs. “I’ll do anything for you, sir.” If there is anything the asset knows it’s how to beg. It’s the only thing it has more experience with than killing. Lying as if it were a person, like it had any right to say no.

_The Asset does not beg._

There are no hands on its head anymore, instead they are gently stroking its back. Nudging it to lean forward, fall limp against a solid, warm body. A hand carefully covering its burning eyes and closing them. The darkness would be soothing if it weren’t for the scent in its nose and  ~~ the memories it brings ~~ the pain it brings.

It’s not allowed to beg but “Please, sir, let me sleep.”

_He smiles and lifts the knife to its fingers. Drip, drip, drip._

_They laugh and continue beating it up. When it vomits there is so much blood._

_The doctors look at it disgusted and dissatisfied and continue to work at the machine. The asset comes back and there is only emptiness in its head. No pain, no fear, no past._

“Please, wipe me.”

It’s the only thing the asset is almost always granted when it begs for it.

“No, soldier. Never again.” He sounds like he’s suffocating.

So that’s it. If the Handler says the asset does not get repaired then it’s nothing more than a useless, broken toy. All that’s left now is to discard it, leave it in a ditch to wither away.

“Acknowledged. Termination of the asset in approximately 48 hours.” This is easy. The asset can lie down and never move again. It won’t have to hurt or kill anymore. Of course the Handler always has the best ideas. How could it have ever doubted that?

“What? No! ...Are you dying?” He’s not suffocating, he’s crying. ~~Don’t make him cry, goddammit! You had one job!~~

“Urgh, what is this super-soldier-drama-soap? Can we please wait with the funeral until he’s dead?”

“What she means is, calm down, Steve. We haven’t even begun to exhaust our options.” The voice is new but not unfamiliar. _“You know, you're a lot heavier than you look.”_

~~ It’s a sad thing the asset is the only one left alive who knows how to effectively stop Steve from worrying too much. ~~ It nudges him carefully with the Arm and the Handler releases it once he gets what it’s asking for nonverbally. It lifts the hand slowly, telegraphing its movement and ruffles playfully through his hair. As long as it doesn’t think too hard about why it knows what to do, the pain is tolerable. But it’s all for naught and the asset gets gravely  ~~ disappointed ~~ since the gesture’s not having the desired effect at all. Instead of calming down the Handler hugs the asset even more closely and buries his face in its shoulder, sobbing harder. “You can’t die. Please don’t leave me.”

“Oh boy.” The Black Widow sighs exasperated.

“Aww, no, Steve, come on, man. Look, he just told us, he needs to sleep and he’s hurting. So, that’s a bed and some painkillers. Nothing too complicated.” Hawkeye points out more helpfully though he’s suspiciously silent about doctors which the asset appreciates but does not trust.

“And he asked to be wiped, so that calls for ten specially trained therapists at most. Nothing we can’t get our hands on.” The Falcon adds.

“And, he’ll do anything for you, sir. But please leave the kinky stuff for later.” If even the Black Widow can joke about order through pain, obedience through torture, the asset could at least attempt to laugh.

“ _You don’t need your tongue to fight.”_

“Really, soldier? That’s what you think funny?” Finally the Handler has pulled himself together and stopped suffocating the asset with his bear hug. “Let me book the Black Humor, Master Comedian, for the next month straight 24/7.”

“My first fan.” She notes drily.

“Not true, Tasha. I thought you funny first.” Hawkeye pouts.

“ _This is your new instructor. Don't let its human appearance fool you. It's nothing but a machine.”_

_Little children standing in a line, far too young for empathy, with no inhibitions about maiming, torturing or killing. Cruel knifes in delicate hands, sharp smiles on innocent faces. When they’re playing they’re inflicting pain like favors, accepting it like candy._

“ _A machine is superior to a human being in what aspects?”_

“ _It makes no mistakes.” “It knows no mercy.”_

_There’s a girl with red hair. “It feels no pain.”_

_And the asset laughs. Pain is the only thing it can feel. For days._

There’s a hand stroking its head because of course its Handler knows when the asset is malfunctioning. Nails scraping lightly over its scalp, fingers running through thick, tousled hair.

The feeling drives the asset into skittish confusion. He’s holding it close like bodily contact should mean anything, caressing its back like he’s soothing a person.

But the asset is a thing to which human touch is nothing more than a concept of pain. It just makes so much sense to interpret its Handler’s gesture as punishment. The asset deserves the hardest punishment for being so utterly useless and it knows just where to find it.

With his scent still thick in its nose come the memories it shouldn’t have. It buries its face further into the crook of his neck and breathes in, focusing on the pain, imagining the blade sneaking down its skin.

At first light as a feather, cutting shallow the second time, biting a little deeper on the third way down. Slicing gently through tendons, peeling off raw skin, tapping playfully at the bones.  _“So you knew Steve Rogers since you were children?”_ Its skin is blistering, burning away in black flakes while the white glowing iron draws a river of agony down its stomach, down its leg and caresses the sole of its foot.  _“What a beautiful friendship it must have been.”_ It can’t suppress a whimper when its teeth are sawn off, slowly grinding through enamel, one by one dropping onto its tongue.  _“Swallow.”_

“Steve.” A voice speaks a slow warning. “You said remembering you might be hurting him? Scent is a strong memory trigger.”

“Shit!”

The asset is pushed back so fast its head snaps painfully back before a hand comes up to support its neck.

“What are you doing, soldier?” Soft eyes, gentle ton, a sad frown on his face. The epitome of a bad handler if there ever was one.

The asset is confused. It had been sure it had understood correctly. “You are free to punish the Asset in any way you see fit, sir. It won’t ever retaliate.” It recites words internalized a long time ago, part of the asset’s product description. Even though it has the strange feeling the last part hasn’t necessarily been true in the past.

“Who- Why would I want to punish you?”

“The Asset is at 5 % standard performance level due to its own misbehavior, sir.” It should have just checked in with Hydra after Project Insight. They would have taken care of it, wiped it, recalibrated it, put it on ice again. So by the time the next mission would come around the asset would be the perfectly honed killing machine it was supposed to be.

“It’s not- Okay, that’s alright. How can we get you back to a hundred percent?” The Handler seems distressed and aimless, his words leaving a lot room of interpretation. Since he refused to wipe the asset his question seems futile anyway, nothing less will revert the asset back to factory condition.

There’s a list in its head the asset can easily fall back to. “Sir, the Asset has a deficiency in nutrition, rest and blood pressure. Furthermore the Asset requires special stimulants to remain functional and responsive. Please contact a scientist responsible for maintenance service.”

The Handler only stares, blue eyes blown wide with disbelief and anxious worry.

“Great, he comes with his very own manual.” Hawkeye grumbles into the heavy silence.

“We’ll get him something to eat and drink and then you can order him to sleep.” The Black Widow has turned her face away, her arms crossed over her chest. “Ask him, what you are to him right now.” She adds even more silently.

The Handler throws her an irritated glace but follows her request. “What am I to you?”

Worst. Handler. Ever.  ~~ _“You’re my mission.”_ ~~ “You are the handler of the asset, sir. Your command will be obeyed in every way.”

He breaks eye contact at this point, looking out of the window at nothing in particular. His face unreadable with the amount of emotions crossing over it. It makes the asset uncomfortable, sensing it has done something wrong though it followed the protocol to the point.

“Steve, tell him, he did good.” Her voice is strained while she’s still not looking at them.

The Handler’s eyes flicker back to the asset. “You did good, soldier. At ease.” After a thoughtful pause he wants to know “Since when did I become your handler?”

The asset hesitates. In the past there were transfer orders or trigger phrases, but it can’t recall any of that happening with this handler. “The little guy from Brooklyn…” It starts to echo a memory, but it’s one of those which hurt. “…who was too dumb…” it forces the words through gritted teeth, talking and fighting through the pain. “…not to run-” Until the Handlers hand is covering its mouth, his face struck with horror.

“Please, stop. Please.” He orders timidly, fighting visibly to force his emotions down. “Well done, soldier.” He adds belatedly, sinking in on himself, appearing awfully ~~small and~~ tired.

The car changes the lane. “There’s a service area ahead. We can buy him toast and baby food or something. And we can all share a bathtub full of coffee.” The Falcon suggests, parking smoothly in the near empty car park.

Hawkeye gives him an incredulous look while he checks his guns over “I'd rather drink it.”

“Ew, disgusting, but whatever ruffles your feathers, man.” He turns around, fixing the Handler with a stern look. “Steve, you’re coming with us.”

The Black Widow readily agrees “Don’t worry. I’ll keep him company.”

“You pointed a gun at him the instant you saw him.” The Handler argues, setting his jaw into that ~~familiar~~ stubbornness.

“I didn’t shoot him, so chill. I know how much he means to you.”

“No, you really don’t.” he tells her off briskly, regretting his words as soon as they leave his mouth. “I’m sorry, guess I could really use a break.” He starts entangling himself from the asset, treating its feeble body like a precious doll and fastens its seatbelt. “I’ll be right back, soldier. You’re doing great, everything’s fine.”

“Keep a low profile or you’ll be recognized.” If the asset can’t protect its Handler it can at least give him much needed advice. A cap and sunglasses won’t hide his memorable physique.

“I’ll try my best.” With the attempt of a smile he is gone, door closing behind him, leaving the asset alone with a person it remembers but doesn’t want to.

They don't have much time alone so she asks soon enough. “Do you remember me?”

The asset doesn’t feel compelled to answer her. Its Handler didn’t leave any orders to obey so she can talk against a wall for all it cares.

“Just… if you- when you remember, think of this as an apology.”

“ _Of course she sold you out, silly thing.”_

They’re not looking at each other. Not acknowledging their blank faces.

“в силу обстоятельств.” It accepts which earns it a minute nod.

  


* * *

 

While they sit in silence the asset lets itself drift off into the dark, empty corner of its mind even though it worries for its Handler. And isn’t that a novelty? Strangely it’s listening to the silent but constant hum of the Arm that lulls it into open eyed reverie.

…ery_update:negative]  
[041230:15082014:query_update:negative]  
[041240:15082014:query_update:negative]  
[041250:15082014:query_update:positive…  
 initiating cellphones_are_useless process…  
 main targets found…  
 connection successful…  
 uploading cpau.exe at 9mb/s…  
 searching:user query in local content…  
  t0001:positive…  
  terminating target interface and keyboard process…  
  scanning /mnt…  
   ../sdcard/dcim/100media/imag0392.jpg  
   ../sdcard/dcim/100media/imag0393.jpg  
   ../sdcard/twitter/msg/0412150814_02.txt  
   [log detail 0412150814_02.txt: draft: ”Check out the 3 Avenger lookalikes O.O Coincid”]  
  t0002:negative…  
  t0003:negative…  
  user query local content deleted:  
   3 files of 603.24kb  
 terminating target communications lines until time:141252:15082014 as error 451]  
[041253:15082014:query_update:negative]  
[041300:15082014:query_update:neg-

“Blink.”

The asset flinches back to the present, trying to curl up protectively but every muscle is crying in protest. Its brain still sluggish, processing the alien information it received.

“Sorry.” The Widow apologizes faintly bewildered. “If you’re wondering why your eyes are hurting and watering, you haven’t blinked for the last five minutes.”

When the asset doesn’t react she sighs and slowly covers its eyes with a hand like its Handler did before. Her skin is soft and warm, the gentle pressure keeping its eyelids shut without feeling overwhelming. The darkness lets the asset slip under again so it feels like mere seconds passed until the Widow moves her hand and speaks up. “They’re coming back.”

The asset is glad she warned it, because suddenly the doors are torn open and the two men and its Handler hurry inside. “We need to move fast. The girl behind the cash register took photos. She probably recognized at least one of us.” Hawkeye explains, handing the Widow a cup of coffee while the Falcon reverses and speeds up, back onto the highway.

Meanwhile the Handler has only eyes for the asset, cradling its head and lifting a bottle to its lips. “Please drink this. It’s only water.” He assures unnecessarily.

The asset does its best to comply but swallowing without choking proves to be quite difficult in an erratically moving car. The two slices of bread are easier, though the chewing motion is unfamiliar and the bigger chunks hurt its throat on the way down. It’s afraid it will just throw everything up again and get punished for it. But to never contradict the wishes of its Handler the asset forces its esophagus shut and suppresses the feeling of sickness.

“You’re doing good, soldier. How are you feeling?” he wants to know, eyes searching the asset’s face for any signs.

It doesn’t understand the question leave alone what to answer and it will probably vomit if it tries to speak. So it keeps its mouth shut and hopes for a mild punishment since it’s inevitable anyway.

When its throat convulses with nausea the Handler understands the problem. “Sorry, you don’t need to answer that. Maybe just try to get some sleep now? I’m sorry, we can’t give you any painkillers right now. If Hydra attacks we need you as present as possible.”

It gives a weak smile, quite content that Hydra has no idea where they are, and lets itself drift off again. Shutting out people, pain and nausea it crawls into the empty corner of its head and curls into a tight ball. With no concept of sleep it just falls into bottomless darkness. When there’s a hand gently pressing its eyelids down it doesn’t even flinch anymore.

The metal arm is humming soothingly. [042510:15082014:query_update:negative]

  


* * *

 

[074710:15082014:query_update:positive]

3 hours and 22 minutes later the asset startles awake with a gasp.

[activating urban_warfare_protocol_975772_v.2014.3.02…  
 updating…  
 repairing…  
 successfully initiated urban_warfare_protocol_975772_v.2014.3.02b]  
[activating standalone_mode]

It faintly registers that it’s still in a car, moving slowly through the thick traffic of Manhatten. Three people are staring at it. But the asset has only eyes for the Arm while its metallic sheen recedes into a matt black like dipping into tangible shadow.

“Soldier?”

Right, back to the boring stuff, there’s a handler waiting to be obeyed. The asset looks at him attentively. “Sir.”

He wears a careful smile, his hands open and unthreatening, eyes slipping ever so often down to the Arm. “You’re safe. Everything is okay.”

It eyes him warily.  „What is the mission?” It cautiously pokes at the  hole in its mind where the handlers mission normally is, considering how to fill it again.

“Uhm…” He looks more lost and sadder by the minute. “Get better?” he tries.

Could he possibly be any vaguer? The Handler is so, so difficult, but he isn’t the first to make fun out of confusing the asset. It has to make due with what it’s offered. “The Asset is at 9 % standard performance level.”

It’s secretly relieved when he smiles at the words. “That’s great! Would you like to drink and eat something?”

Finally an easy order, though he took the effort not to phrase it as one. The asset watches his face for a moment, trying vainly to figure out why he did that. “Yes, please, sir.” Maybe he just wants to be friendly. The asset can deal will friendly until a certain point. It takes the offered water bottle with its metal arm, not quite trusting its flesh and bone one to get the job done without taking a shower. After a few tentative sips it gulps the water down greedily, wetting its parched throat. Instead of bread it gets a plastic spoon and glass filled with a strange orange mash. The taste is definitely much better, making the following nausea more bearable.

“Now that you’re more… sound of mind, I thought, maybe we could talk some ground rules?” The Handler orders? asks? suggests? Whatever - Rules, missions, guidelines. Yes, please, the asset nods enthusiastically.

“Okay.” He takes a deep breath. “You’re James Buchanan Barnes, you’re a person. That means you are free to do whatever you want as long as you don’t hurt anybody. I’m your friend, not your handler. I will never punish you or hurt you intentionally. I’m here to help and so are Natasha, Clint and Sam.”

Those words could be orders, could feel safe, but they don’t. The asset gets propelled into an inescapable freefall of inconsistent instructions. Back into the dark abyss it was made from.

“It is highly recom-m-mmended to… to… restrict….” _the Asset’s liberty of action as_ “much as… as possible to avoid, avoid, a-av…” _volatile and erratic behavior._

“I don’t think that was a good idea…”

_The Asset is_ “a machine… a machine made to k-kill on co-comma-aand.”

_The Asset does not want_ “fo-or anything, thing.”

“The Asset knows” _neither conscience nor mercy. It will_ “never hesitate to kill.” _kill, kill._ “Find and kill Captain America.”

There’s the prick of a needle in Bucky’s neck, pushing sedatives into his veins.

“Stop the car, Sam! Now!”

Steve is staring in shock, tears streaming down his cheeks, too fixated on Bucky’s face to notice the syringe in his metal hand.

“ _Of course she sold you out, silly thing.”_ “Don’t you know anything? Things don’t have friends.”

“Steve, get out!” Steve is pulled out through the suddenly open door offering barely any resistance.

“Don’t fight him, he’ll run himself into the ground. No blood shed.”

He gives his friends a wide eyed look and turns to run.

But finally the adrenaline kicks in and Bucky grabs for the knives in his boots and scrambles gracelessly out of the car. He picks himself up instantly and gives chase, sprinting over the asphalt, body low, dodging civilians effortlessly in the wake of Steve’s path. He uses his hands pushing himself away from the ground when he cuts a corner too close, causing him to lose one of his knives. Bucky couldn’t care less, blood and adrenalin pounding through his veins, the wind in his hair, the scent of his prey in his nose. He’ll rip Steve’s throat out with his bare teeth if he has to.

In spite of all his effort Bucky doesn’t catch up, the drug fading fast from his frustratingly weak body, the edges of his vision growing dangerously dark. Nothing more than pure hatred holding him upright, he stumbles further through the parting mass of faceless humans until grey stone gives way to reeking litter and Bucky finds himself in an abandoned backstreet. On the other side Steve looks comically small though his muscular body is as strong as ever and would overpower Bucky any time. But he still has one thing Steve will always surrender to. The face of a dead man.

“You let me fall.” He screams, voice hoarse with exhaustion.

Steve stops in his tracks, turning around slowly while Bucky drags himself onwards.

“You abandoned me!”

He looks like he is seeing Death himself walking towards him. And maybe this is indeed what Death would look like. Broken, bloody and with a manic grin on his face like the whole world owes him an apology.

“And then you had the audacity to DIE!!”

He can hear Steve’s heartbeat now, too fast and irregular like it has a defect, the white in his eyes, his nostrils fluttering in shier panic.

“And left me to ROT. AWAY. IN HELL!!!”

He scrapes his last energy reserves together to finally reach Steve. Then his legs just break away, his body crashing down, his head striking the ground hard.

He blinks. Head full of cotton and razor blades. He opens his mouth. “’Til the end of the line, pal? Easy for you to say.”

Steve is staring down at him with broken eyes, a broken face and a broken heart.

The knife just out of Bucky’s reach, useless on the ground. He can’t kill him, but this is close enough. Mission accomplished. His eyes drift close.

  


* * *

 

The asset does not dream.

It does not dream of Bucky and Steve after the war.

It does not dream how they both made it through alive and unbroken.

Smiling at each other on a night out. Both dressed to their best, in suit and tie. Walking through the streets of New York bathed in the last rays of a setting sun. People talking and laughing, music floating through the air, pigeons scrapping for bread crumbs.

Bucky and Steve are going to a fine restaurant. They can afford it now, not even cutting corners.

Steve quickens his steps to hold the door open for Bucky.

What a gentleman.

On the table is a candle already lit, illuminating a bouquet of lilies topped with one red rose.

Steve smiles at Bucky and Bucky smiles back.

Steve isn’t small anymore.

Bucky isn’t dead anymore.

A glass shatters on the ground. The sound of it breaking sharp and shrill.

The carpet is covered in dead doves and human teeth.

Come sit down.

Steve smiles, pulling out the Chair for Bucky.

The smell of ozone fills the air, everything is quiet.

It does not dream how they both made it through alive and unbroken.

It does not dream of Bucky and Steve after the war.

The asset does not dream.

Bucky did.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Спутник” - “Sputnik.”
> 
> “Доклад миссии, Cолдат.” - “Mission report, Soldier.”
> 
> “В погоне за Captain America. цель: найти и убить.“ - “In pursuit of Captain America. Objective: find and kill.”
> 
> “где Captain America?” - “Where is Captain America?”
> 
> “Вставаи. За мной.” - “Get up. Follow.”
> 
> █▄■, █▄█■, █▄█▀ █▄■ ▄ █▄? █▄ ▄▄█▄ ▄ █■█. █████!  
> Zola, bloody, motherfucking Zola is dead? Holy mother of God. FINALLY!
> 
> “В силу обстоятельств.” - “by force of circumstances”/“in accordance with circumstances”
> 
> \---  
> thank you so much for reading :)


	2. tell me I'm wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The asset wakes up in a cell.  
> It lives. It breathes. It moves.  
> It heals. It sleeps. It eats.  
> It listens to Steve crying and the days go by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> suggested songs:  
> ["My Counterfeit" by Diorama](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ph20YJjaGYk)  
> [''Winter Bird'' by AURORA](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FYFNzSTVvJk)

  


* * *

  


[000000:00000000:rebooting…]

A body wakes up in a cell.

A body is clothed in white linen and lies on the naked floor of an empty cell.

No windows but cameras in the corners and a small ventilation shaft.

There is nothing in a head but a list.

Встать на колени. Положить руки за голову. Подчиняться.

A body gets up on knees, folding arms behind a head. A body stays like this until it receives new input.

[000319:00000000:reboot complete]  
[000319:00000000:updating…]  
[000322:00000000:emergency protocol initiated…  
                user query:negative…  
                auto query activated:user safety…  
                scanning…]

A body moves when the door opens and somebody enters the cell. Killing converts somebody to nobody.

„Уступать!”

A body instantly freezes, goes back onto knees and somebody survives.

“Stand up.”

A body stands up, swaying only slightly.

“What are you?”

A mouth answers. “Project Winter Soldier, Subject #749, Object WS_01.”

“What is your mission?”

“Primary programming: kill humans.”

“What do you remember?”

“Killing and survival skillset available. Emergency behavior protocol available. Handler manual available.”

“Lie down.”

A body lies down.

Somebody leaves.

[001247:00000000:scan complete…  
                9999 targets found…  
                               1 master target identified…  
                               3 sub master targets identified…  
                               3 main targets identified…  
                                               prioritizing:main targets:master targets:sub master targets…  
                initiating polymorphic_virus_415 process…  
                               connection failed 1/3…  
                               connection failed 2/3…  
                               connection successful 3/3:  
                                               IMEI: 13-579024-190718-99  
                                               name: sgr_sp  
                                               log detail: traces found 030416:15082014…  
                               uploading pmv415.exe at 21mb/s…  
                                               activating microphone…]

[033559:17082014:log detail src:sgr_sp: “…wiped himself?” “Is that even possible?” “We should do a brain scan or something.” “Sure. 82nd is the medical floor. I have everything you need. State of the art Stark...”]

[033607:17082014:user query:Stark  
                scanning…  
                downloading…  
                               log detail: Anthony Edward Stark, human, 44, Stark Industries, Iron Man, Arc Reactor, S.H.I.E.L.D., Pepper Pots, Howard...  
                download aborted]

 _“Attack head on? What a marvelous idea! You can take this new gun I designed out for a spin. The blast radius might double outside of the lab. Those Squid Nazis won’t know what hit_ ’ _em.”_

[033626:17082014:log detail src:sgr_sp: “…in.” “Please don’t do that. We have no idea how he will react to you.” “But-” “He could try to kill you. Or your presence could simply fry his brain for good. Or he’ll revert back to Hydra’s...”]

[033639:17082014:user query:Hydras  
                scanning…  
                downloading…  
                               log detail: Germany, Johann Schmidt, Schutzstaffel, World War II…  
                download aborted]

_“Feel that? That is you.”_

The body is in pain contrary to protocol.

[033703:17082014:log detail src:sgr_sp: “…the next 20 hours or so.” “Come on, big guy, I’ll have someone take you shopping. It’ll be fun. You can pick some clothes for him. Can’t have him parade around like Jesus all day.” “It’s half past three on a Sunday morning, Stark. Shops are closed.” “You think they care about business hours when Captain America…”]

[033742:17082014:user query:Captain America  
                scanning…  
                downloading…  
                               log detail: Steven Grant Rogers…  
               download aborted]

_“Why did you even bother with such a sickly and idiotic boy? He must have been such a burden.”_

There’s no protocol for this. The body trembles, curls in on itself. A long whine escapes its lips. There is something in its head. Memories it shouldn’t have and memories it should have. But they are so far away it can only catch a vague glimpse before the pain becomes too much. _Drip drip drip._

[034112:17082014:hiding log details]

“Status report.”

Somebody is in proximity. The body is still in pain. Killing makes the pain go away.

The body jumps to its feet. Metal plates whirring aggressively, calibrating.

„Уступать!”

The body does not comply. It attacks, metal arm going for her throat. She evades gracefully, vanishes through the door, escapes. So the door gets to be the new target, but it doesn’t budge. Not even a crack under the forceful punches of the metal arm.

The body abandons the futile assault, breathing heavily, eyes roaming aimlessly. It stalks through the cell, searching for weak points, finding none. It tears the cameras of the walls just to have something to destroy, to crumble and bend in its metal hand. Still restless it continues to kick and punch the door until a faint smell alerts it to a gas being released through the ventilation system. It eyes the grate covering the shaft, considering if it should stuff it with the clothes it’s wearing, but eventually decides to let itself slip under. It doesn’t want to be starved into submission. Its body is only at precious 25 % standard performance level.

It goes to sit under the ventilation shaft, inhaling deeply so the feeling of its body growing weaker and weaker is over as soon as possible.

  


* * *

 

The body wakes up in an empty cell, lying on a too soft mattress, cameras recessed into the walls staring down at it.

[061157:17082014:status report: polymorphic_parasite …  
                polymorphic_parasite updated and in progress…  
                infection of master target 45% complete…  
                time remaining: 03h54min…]  
[061158:17082014:user query:status report:Steve…  
                updating…  
                               personal status: unknown  
                               phone status: active  
                                               coordinates: N 40.75355 W 73.97677  
                                               subjective distance: (15,17,198) m]

It stares at the point where it would see Steve, or at least his phone, if it could see through walls. But there’s only a white, seamless ceiling. Not acceptable.

It sits up, cross legged, hands under its thighs, eyes closed. If somebody wants to come, they’ll do it when it appears non-threatening.

It waits for an hour.

“So you still want to kill everyone?” A slightly warped voice comes through the speaker.

“No.” it tries, not quite sure what she expects it to say. Is there any scenario it would actually admit something like that? …Oh, right. It did exactly that. Stupid protocol.

“What do you want then?”

“May I talk to Steve, please?” It smiles sheepishly at a camera. Good job. Human facial expression, choice of words polite, first person pronoun. Just like a real person.

“No.”

Urgh… “Why not?” Okay, that sounded whiny. But maybe that’s acceptable human behavior?

“Do you remember what happened two days ago?” she wants to know and it’s obvious from her accusatory tone it won’t be a pleasant memory.

It stays silent, trying hard to recall the event. “Oh… Oh no… I understand.” Steve is hurt and it’s the asset’s fault. Of course he doesn’t want to talk to the asset. It pulls its knees up and buries its face behind its legs. Its eyes start to burn and its stomach is hurting. It feels so, so miserable. “Could you tell him, I’m sorry?” The words are muffled and weak, but it can’t bring itself to raise its voice. It doesn’t even know why it bothers to ask. It’s not like it would ever know if the Black Widow relayed the message or just kept it to herself. Another little secret for her collection. Another weakness she can exploit at will.

“I’ll do that, if you do something for me first.” That was to be expected.

“Sure.” Really, it doesn’t matter what she wants. The asset is her prisoner. How much choice does it have anyway?

“I’m going to come into your cell and bring you something to eat.”

“Knock yourself out.”

“And you’re going to sit there peacefully and try to eat it.”

It remembers faintly Steve handfeeding it bits of toast. That would be great. “Can Steve come and feed me?” Just to annoy her. But… Steve will never come. The asset will never see him again, because Steve hates it. Because it hurt him. It winds its arms around its head and bites its lips to suppress a whimper.

The door opens with a quiet hiss and doesn’t close again. Footsteps, intentionally audible, clothes ruffling. “Come on, try.” She’s back at the door again, but she doesn’t leave.

The asset doesn’t move. It knows it’s failing her test, but it doesn’t care anymore. It hurt Steve. So badly. It should just rot away in this cell so Steve can find some peace in the knowledge that it’s finally dead.

“Steve would be so happy to hear you’ve eaten something.” She coaxes softly.

It lifts its head but keeps its grim glare directed to the ground. “Don’t insult me. The Red Room trained you to lie better than that, Natasha.”

“I see.” She just says and starts typing away on her phone.

The asset eyes the food. Three slices of toast, some reddish mashed up stuff, a banana, a cup of water with some shiny robotface on it and a plastic spoon on a paper plate.

“Okay, new deal.” She proposes suddenly. “You allow yourself to be restrained. That means cuffs at your feet and your hands even your metal arm won’t be able to break. In return Steve will come and see you and you can apologize in person. And since your movement will be restricted and Steve is such a boy scout, maybe he’ll feed you if you ask nicely.”

The asset stares at her wide eyed, betraying its hope like an overeager child, and offers its arms in case she wants to cuff them immediately. “The asset complies.” It flinches. Wrong choice of words if her face is anything to go by. “I mean, yes, great plan.”

She nods and leaves the room, door sliding shut behind her.

[062547:17082014:user query:status report:sgr_sp…  
                updating…  
                               phone status: active  
                                               coordinates: N 40.75344 W 73.97686  
                                               subjective distance: (-02,12,125) m]  
[062549:17082014: user query:sgr_sp txt msg history…  
                searching:user query in local content…  
                               found: 4 messages within user query timeframe  
                                               log detail:msg 1: Nat: “you awake?”  
                                               log detail:msg 2: sgr_sp: “Just back from a run”  
                                               log detail:msg 3: Nat: “he wants to see you, he’ll be cuffed, no argument, no kinky stuff”  
                                               log detail:msg 4: sgr_sp: “omw”]  


[062554:17082014: user query:omw]

She told the truth. Steve is on his way. He wants to see the asset.

The door opens again and the Black Widow brings some heavily reinforced cuffs. They look nothing like the ones Hydra used, instead they’re infused by a soft pulsing orange light and have a flamboyant Starktech logo etched into the dull metall.

The asset has already gotten on its knees and turned around, hands crossed behind its back.

“I’m thrilled to see your plan if your true motive is to kill Steve.” She remarks with false amusement and approaches while the door behind her slides shut.

This is the chance to kill her. She can’t escape as quickly as last time. And she knows it, her body appearing relaxed, but the asset can see how she’s preparing to fight.

With good reason. The asset is a weapon, not a person. Who touches a blade should be prepared to bleed. Thoughts running through its head, calculating the quickest and safest way to kill the Black Widow. Let itself be cuffed, lull her into a false sense of security, break her wrist, grab her hair, break her delicate neck. The Arm is already bypassing the system and jamming the locking mechanism. There won’t be anything stopping the asset from killing Steve’s friend.

It turns around and backs away from her, against the wall. “Stay away.” Failing her next test with flying colors.

And she fully expected it, pausing, not even a flicker of surprise in her eyes. “What’s the problem?”

She can’t know the cuffs won’t work. It can’t tell her about the Arm. If it loses its only advantage it will be truly trapped in this cell for an indiscernible time to come. That’s a thought the asset is not prepared to bear.

“The a-… May I talk to Steve over the speaker system, please? I’ll eat the food.”

She eyes the asset for a moment. “No skin off my back.” Shrugs and turns around to leave.

“I’m sorry, I attacked you.” Better start practicing how to apologize correctly.

“Just don’t do it again.” She says and the door closes behind her.

Left alone the asset picks up a slice of toast and starts to cautiously nibble at it.

[062721:17082014:user query:status report:sgr_sp…  
                updating…  
                               phone status: active  
                                               coordinates: N 40.75353 W 73.97708  
                                               subjective distance: (03,02,00) m]  


He’s here. He’s so close. The asset doesn’t move its head, but it can’t stop its eyes from looking in his direction. It’s not like he’ll notice anyway.

The first slice of toast is gone, so it absently picks up the second, far too focused if it can hear anything, if Steve will actually talk to it.

When it has finished the slice, drank some water and started with the mash, he finally speaks.

“You wanted to talk to me?”

The asset thought about what it would say to him. Sorry I tried to kill you multiple times. I wanted to apologies for my bad behavior. I shouldn’t have said those mean things. Please don’t hate me.

It carefully swallows the food in its mouth and sets the spoon down.

“Are you Hydra?”

There’s a definite moment of silence before he answers in a slightly irritated voice. “No, I’m not.”

“Are you or were you ever married or elected president of the United States?”

“No to both.” The answer comes faster but even more irritated.

“Okay.” It hesitates, staring into nothingness, gathering its thoughts. “The asset apologize for…” Trying to kill you. Hurting you. Abusing you. Lying to you. Accusing you. Bulling you. Using you. Being weak. Being broken. Not being your Bucky. Wearing the face of your dead friend. Working for Hydra. Torturing people. Killing innocent people. Killing children. Killing so many. Killing. Killing.

_“Killing is the only thing you’re good for.”_

Its breathing has become thick and wet, its eyes wide open and flickering through the empty cell. The asset stands up and walks to the corner farthest away from Steve. It kneels down, back to the door, and presses its face into the wall, hot skin on cold concrete.

Its mind doesn’t follow though. It passes the dark, empty corner where it would be safe and moves on to the memories it shouldn’t have. Because here lies the pain and the punishment it deserves. Because here it can remember being unbroken. Because here it can be with Steve.

_And Steve smiles at him._

  


* * *

 

[103521:17082014:status report:polymorphic_parasite…  
                infection of master target J.A.R.V.I.S. complete…  
                shared functions available]  
[103521:17082014:initiating polymorphic_parasite…  
                infecting sub main target 1/3:F.B.I. NYC database…  
                infecting sub main target 2/3:C.I.A. NYC database…  
                infecting sub main target 3/3:N.Y.P.D. database…  
                time remaining: 13min52sec…]

  


* * *

 

The asset wakes up in a cell.

It lives. It breathes. It moves.

It heals. It sleeps. It eats.

It listens to Steve crying and the days go by.

  


* * *

 

“After you fell from the train I thought you dead. I mourned you, I cried for you, I tried to drink myself stupid. I thought you dead and I carried on with the mission.”

The asset screams and begs for him to just shut up and leave. Live his life instead of dwelling in the past and wasting his time with a broken thing.

And the night is just so much worse. Filled with desperation, self-loathing and hopelessness.

 

“Thanks to Zola’s intel we finally knew where to find the Red Skull. He didn’t stand a chance against a Captain America who had nothing left to lose. And he thought I was just being arrogant. When he planned to destroy all the major cities of the United States I stopped him.”

The asset threatens to kill him if he doesn’t shut the fuck up, right now. It threatens to kill him and his friends and everyone he loves and everyone he ever saved or will save.

And the night is just so much worse. Filled with murder, violence and fear.

 

“This is where I wanted our story to end. After Hydra’s fall, after the Nazis’ defeat, after your death, there was nobody left who needed me anymore. So I decided to join you in the afterlife. But I ended up frozen for 67 years instead.”

The asset laughs at him, how pathetic he is. Sacrificing himself for a greater cause? For the people? For freedom? Does he even know what the world looks like outside his first world bubble of white male supremacy? And he wanted what now? Join his best friend in some heavenly afterlife? Even Hydra wasn’t as stark raving mad.

And the night is just so much worse. Filled with hatred, laughing and tears.

 

“So we’re both here now. In the future.”

The asset asks him quietly to leave it alone, please.

And the night is unbearable, so the asset tempers with the security system and leaves the tower. Keeping to the empty roofs and abandoned alleys, staying clear of humans. It’s the first time it’s sober enough to really look at the 21st century. New York, the people, the technology. Everything is looming and shrill and alien. But ever so often something beautiful catches its eye and it wants to say: “Look, Steve!”

 

The Asset lifts its head.

“After he fell from the train he thought you alive. He begged for you, he cried for you, he tried to kill himself. He thought you alive and carrying on without him.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. It doesn’t even know if he’s listening at all.

And the night is just so much worse. Filled with regret, sadness and loss.

 

“Thanks to Zola they broke his mind and enhanced his body. They didn’t have any problems with someone who had nothing left to lose. And they thought he was just being weak. When they planned to make him into a killing machine he didn’t stop them.”

Steve comes into the cell but he can’t even look at it. That’s just fine, the Asset can’t look at him either.

And the night is just so much worse. Filled with pain, surrender and indifference.

 

“This is where his story ends: After Hydra’s fall, after the Nazis’ defeat, after your heroic victory, there was still nobody coming to save him. So he decided to find and kill Captain America. But Hydra wiped him before they could lose their Asset to his hate and grief.”

Steve brings the Asset into another cell with an adjacent bathroom, a simple bed, a table and two chairs. He asks the Asset to sit down, so the Asset kneels on the floor and Steve sits down beside it.

And the night is just so much worse. Filled with emptiness, obedience and death.

 

“Bucky Barnes didn’t make it to the future.”

Steve lowers his head.

And the night is just so much worse. Filled with nothing.

  


* * *

 

“I’m sorry for your loss.” The Asset tries so comfort him.

“He was wrong to hate you. But he didn’t know better.” The Asset tries to explain.

“Hydra told him you were alive and happy. They fabricated whole biographies for you. It was a joke to them.” The Asset tries to remember.

“Sometimes you married Peggy, had three adorable children and lived happily ever after. Sometimes you were elected the first catholic president of the United States. Sometimes you were the new head of Hydra. Sometimes you died peacefully after a fulfilled life. It didn’t matter. Everything that made Bucky Bucky died when he wasn’t part of your life anymore. Even when he thought you had abandoned him, he didn’t abandon you, he got obsessed with you, he abhorred you, he went insane. Let him rest in peace.”

Steve looks at it, eyes filled to the brim with sympathy and sadness. “I would give my soul to spare you everything they did to you.”

“I know. But please don’t. Wouldn’t like to be stranded in the 21st century with my best friend being nothing but a soulless shell. Like you are.” It wants to laugh but the look on Steve’s face prompts it to change it into a cough. Which turns into a coughing fit, because its throat is parched from speaking so much, and Steve gets it hurriedly a cup of water.

They stay silent while the Asset takes slow sips, Steve watching his finger tracing random patterns over the table.

“So, what do you want to do now? I don’t think you’re a danger to anyone, so there’s really no reason to keep you locked up any longer.”

The Asset sets the cup down, keeping its face carefully blank. “I’m sorry for patronizing you, but you’re so goddamn adorable when you believe in the best in something.”

Steve glares at it disappointed and the Asset can’t help but laugh. “I would disagree with you, on me not being a danger to anyone, but the prospect of getting out of this cell is pretty compelling. So I’ll send you over to the Black Widow so she can disagree with you for me.”

“She won’t disagree with me. Who are you a danger to anyway? And don’t tell me ‘Hydra’. I would be concerned if you weren’t a danger to them.”

The Asset gives a sad smile. “I’ve been kind of lying to you.” It tries to carefully feel its way into the confession, watching Steve’s face warily for any signs of anger, but he seems to be just puzzled and curious. “I’m a danger to everyone. I get pretty aggressive and violent when you’re not there.”

“I’ve seen practically all video footage of the cell, but it’s really not as bad as you seem to think.”

The Asset huffs and rubs his face, contemplating its next words. “No you haven’t. It’s faked.” It confesses and gives one of the cameras in the corners a shy look. “Sorry, JARVIS.”

“How can they be fake? How do you know JARVIS?” Finally Steve gets alarmed.

“See, I can’t believe I’m giving my secrets away, JARVIS has a week point if it’s accessed through an already infected StarkPhone. You should get that looked at Tony, it’s not like you don’t have any tech crack enemies.” The Asset is talking at the camera by now, knowing JARVIS will relate the message. When it looks back to Steve, fully prepared to get chewed out, it’s suddenly confronted with a very, very happy looking golden retriever. Oh. Nope. Still Steve. “What drugs are **you** on?” it wants to know because there’s really no other explanation for a smile so big and so dopey.

“So, you could have opened your cell door at any time?”

“Yes.” The Asset confesses unhappily and lets its head sink onto the table, arms stretching out limply.

“You could have just stood up and left?”

“I did go out and buy a pizza one time.”

“And you came back.”

The Asset turns its face to look at him. “If I get the choice I’ll always come back to you.”

Incredibly, his smile gets even bigger, well of course, it’s an super-soldier-serum-enhanced smile. The Asset can’t help but return one, smaller though, geez, happiness isn’t measured in the size of one’s smile.

There’s a knock on the door immediately before it slides open and a casually dressed Tony Stark saunters into the cell prompting Steve to jump to his feet. “Oh, good, you’re still decent. It’s the arm, right? Let me see.” He demands while making grabby hands.

“Tony.” Steve growls warningly and the Asset is sure there would already be overzealous scientist hands all over its Arm if it weren’t for Captain America’s imposing posture.

“Nono, down boy. This is important. **This** is a security breach.” He bounces on his heels impatiently still eyeing the metal arm like a wrapped birthday present.

“No problem, we’ll leave right now.” Steve says carefree, glancing quickly at the Asset as if to make sure it would be alright with that. It shrugs, happy with every scenario that won’t end with it on an operating table. And Steve, Steve shouldn’t end up on an operating table, too.

“What? No! You can’t just leave. Uh, JARVIS needs a playmate. Is your apartment not comfortable enough? I know you haven’t been sleeping much in your bed with the whole humpty dumpty brainy thing. I can have it changed. You’ll get anything you want. Stars and Stripes wallpapers, a pet bald eagle, a hugging pillow of Ellis, the whole patriotic fantasy package.”

“I’ve been sleeping in my bed every night since we came here, thank you for your concern.” Steve protests irritated.

“It’s okay, Capsicle. I’m not stalking you, JARVIS is. He alerted me because he’s been worried about you. It’s really bad for your old back if you sleep every night on the floor in front of his door.”

“That was one time, for maybe half an hour. I was really tired.”

“Why are you denying it? You know what a camera is, right? …Wait.”

The Asset studies the last sip of water in its cup intently, considering to drink or not to drink it. In the aftermath of being brainwashed it’s still **really** hard to make decisions.

“You put that on a loop? Why?”

“It’s called a bluff. It’s a very common strategy in… poker. You should try it some time.” It explains vaguely.

“Just how much did you tamper with my security system? You had to manipulate all the footage of the real Steve, too.”

The Asset throws him an irritated glance. “Don’t get your iron panties in a twist. You’re smart, you’ll figure it out and nobody will be able to temper with it again.”

“If I get to study your hardware for a bit.”

“Then that’s a definite and infinite ‘no touching the Arm’.”

“Hm, should have seen that coming. But everybody has a weakness. What can I bribe you with? I’m sure I can dig up some sepia photos of little, cute pre-serum Steve for you to put under your pillow.”

_“Stop trying. No girl will look at me twice, Buck._

_“Nonsense. Girls like cute. They look at you and find you adorable. They’ll want to hug you dearly to their bosoms. I envy you.”_

_“No, you don’t. Guess you wouldn’t understand with you looking like… that.”_

The Asset can’t suppress a pained flinch, reminding it just how broken and vulnerable it is.

“Stark! Out!” Steve tells him with clenched teeth.

“What? No fans of tiny Stevie?”

_“What a childish name, he must have been so ashamed. Or was that the point?”_

“OUT!”

“Okay, okay.” With that Tony flees out of the cell, before Steve can force him.

The Arm replaces the disastrous footage immediately, not even bothering with a cover up loop, but playing adorable catvideos. If it can’t fake the footage unnoticed anymore, it can very well distract anyone from complaining about the replacement.

The Asset lets a hand run through its hair and releases an exhausted breath. Eyes roaming through the plain cell, desperately trying to find something interesting to occupy its mind with. It hates this weakness. For so many reasons.

“Hey, you wanna go upstairs? Tony gave me a whole floor in the tower. Or I could give you the tour, show you the gym, the swimming pool, the bar. Oh, and there’s a sauna, if that’s your thing.”

The Asset closes its eyes, imagining all the different rooms Steve is naming. Imagines walking around in the tower, looking out of windows, watching the city live, the sun set.

But first it has to know if it should make plans to kill Iron Man. “He didn’t do it on purpose, right? He didn’t talk about the past to punish me, because I wouldn’t let him look at the Arm, right?”

It already says a lot that Steve has to think about it before he shakes his head with emphasized certainty. “No. It wasn't on purpose. Tony wouldn’t do that.”

“Okay.” It sighs relived. “Good for him.” Despite Steve’s words its mind is already running multiple scenarios on how to kill Iron Man.

Quick in his sleep, after he worked three days straight again. Poison in his drink, it won’t even dull the taste of his expensive whiskey. Take what he loves, make him fight on foreign ground. An EMP to the suit, letting him fall to his death. Malfunctioning brakes when he’s speeding recklessly, showing off his Lykan 2014 SIHC he bought yesterday. Accidents happen.

“May I get a hug, please?” The Asset asks quietly, distressed from its trail of thought.

“Sure, but... I don’t want to hurt-“

“Just do it. I can hold my breath.”

Steve gives in and wraps his arms reluctantly around it. Enveloping it in so much warmth and sensation of not being alone, he feels better than any empty corner in its mind it ever fled to.

The Asset doesn’t hold its breath. It will break this fucked up conditioning even if it ends up as a shivering mess on the ground. The Asset will smell Steve and it will be the best goddam smell in the whole wide world!

When its legs start to tremble, phantom pain spreading like acid over its skin, Steve lets go instantly and pushes it with gentle force to sit on the table. The Asset's stomach flips, because of course Steve keeps in mind, chairs are only viable at good times.

“Okay, nor more hugs for you, liar.” He scolds it half serious.

The Asset just gives him a weak smile, breathes through the pain and tries to shake the tremors out of its limps. “So you’ll defend yourself if I attempt to hug you?”

“With shield and everything.”

“Who’s the liar now?”

  


* * *

 

They quickly pack together the few things the Asset was given. Clothes, e-reader, toothbrush and -paste. Since the Asset hast no concept of possession, Steve tells it, it gets to keep those things and do with them whatever it wants. It wonders what it means, when Steve also tells it, he’s its friend. Does it get to keep him and do with him what it wants, too?

As they walk side by side to the elevator, the Asset carefully lets its arm brush Steve's, realizing they haven't been like this since the war. _Walking side by side through German woods, sun setting in their backs, a Hydra outpost coming up in the distance. They’ll wait until night falls to attack._ It grits its teeth against the phantom pain, keeping its face blank with a small unmeaning smile. But Steve notices immediately or he just had the same nostalgic thought, takes its hand into his and rubs his thumb over its fingers. They definitely didn't do that in the past so the Asset finds comfort when it concentrates on the feeling of his warm skin against its own. Before it can get to overwhelming though, it gives his hand a little squeeze to show him how it appreciates the gesture and lets go. It’ll need to make sure to always walk on his left side, so he'll touch the flesh arm if he'll ever feel compelled again to take its hand.

When they stand in the elevator, Steve hesitates. “So, where do you want to go? Since it’s four in the afternoon, there’ll be people on most floors.”

“Let’s not go there then. Show me your place. Wanna see where you sleep, when you’re not in front of my door.”

Steve huffs and presses a button on the control panel. “I would have stayed the nights, if you had asked.”

“You already gave me your whole days.”

“I didn’t mind. Was fun.”

The Asset snorts. “That’s your idea of fun? The Winter Soldier had a funnier pastime with Hydra.”

Steve gives it one of those mildly horrified looks it so often gets from him for trying to make a joke.

“Natasha would have laughed.” It grumbles and crosses its arms in front of its chest, effectively hugging its belongings and feeling stupid for it.

“You did just suggest, that killing people while being practically mind controlled is more fun than talking to your friend.” He defends himself.

“Yeah, well in your case your friend is a pretty fucked up nutcase.” It knows it's fishing now, but it’s so nice to hear Steve say good things about it.

“Nah, he has just no sense of humor.”

“That’s what Hydra took first. Couldn’t have an assassin running around telling good punchlines.”

“Bet you had the best punchlines with that arm.”

The Asset groans and makes a face. “Worst joke. You win.” And Steve actually dares to look smug.

The Elevator stops and the doors slide open. In front of them lies a modernly furnished hallway with two sleek chairs by the floor to ceiling windows to the left, some nondescript plants and a wooden table with a mirror hanging above. Surprisingly no Stars, Stripes or bald eagles in sight. There are three doors, one titled ‘conference room’, one ‘Steve Rogers’ Residence’ and one emergency exit.

“Uh, could you wait here a moment? I didn’t really think this through. There are some things that… need to be cleared away.” Steve asks, already looking nervously around.

The Asset has the brief feeling there should be a crude remark to make, but doesn’t understand what it should be about. It just nods and walks mesmerized to the windows, potential snipers nearly forgotten. It has checked the construction plans of the tower days ago and knows the windows are all made of one-way bullet resistant glass. Still there could be unwelcome eyes on the building, but it hasn’t seen the world outside for five days, so it’s definitely worth it.

It’s a beautiful view, the sky covered in thick, grey clouds, skyscrapers blocking out the horizon, everything made out of concrete, metal and glass, like humans know no other materials, and deep down traffic jam, stop lights and fumes as far as the eye can see.

The Asset tells Steve as much when he returns and gets a disbelieving look in return. “Is sarcasm your new choice of humor now? It’s a shitty view. Just wait for sunshine or the night at least. Now let me give you a tour of my floor and you can choose one of the guestrooms to sleep in.”

“I’m sleeping here?” it asks cautiously.

“Oh, sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed. You can sleep here, if you like or we’ll find you somewhere else. Whatever you want, really.”

“May I sleep in my cell, please?” It instantly looks down when Steve’s face turns sad.

“Whatever makes you feel safe.” His voice is surprisingly soft. Then, because he’s a self-sacrificing idiot, he adds in all sincerity “I could sleep in front of your door if you want.”

And, because the Asset is a greedy egoist, it nearly takes him up on the offer, but it manages to cling to the clothes it’s still hugging and shake its head.

Steve just gives an encouraging smile and leads it into the apartment.

It’s practically one big room, including living room and kitchen, and two opposite corridors. One leading to four bedrooms with adjacent bathrooms, the other to a personal gym and a studio. All walls facing the side of the building are made of glass giving a similar view as the hallway, to the south of Manhattan. The rooms don’t really look lived in except for the pile of boxes in the living room, which all appear to have been ransacked at some point but never unpacked.

One item in particular is amiss.

“Your shield didn’t vanish in the depths of the Potomac River, did it?” That would be a shame. The Asset dreamed about playing catch with Steve and his shield. It was probably the only good dream it had, so it isn’t about to challenge its level of realism.

“Uh, no. Divers found it while clearing up the wreckage of the Helicarriers.” Steve says suspiciously hesitant.

“May I see it, please?” The Asset swallows hard. Already there is fire licking over its skin, biting playfully into flesh. It remembers catching the shield easily when Steve threw it at the Asset after it shot Nicholas Fury. With the drugs in its system it had been no effort at all to suppress every memory it shouldn’t have.

“Please, don’t do that. It’s not worth the pain.” Steve makes a motion as if to touch it but aborts midair.

It shakes meekly its head and decides to set its belongings down on a couch, so it will finally stop hugging them. “It is. We were happy, it’s not supposed to hurt to remember that.”

“There was a lot of bad stuff, too, I would rather forget.”

“Compared to Hydra?”

His lets his shoulders sag and tilts his head. “How do you compare stuff like that? I was very sick, maybe even dying. Nobody needed me back then. I was just a waste of space.”

_“A pathetic child. Sick of body and mind. Of course somebody like him would become a symbol of America. Wasn’t it humiliating and aggravating to fight his battles for him?”_

“My body was hell sometimes, surely wouldn’t have made it past 30 if it weren’t for the serum.”

_“The doctor confirmed that it’s pneumonia. Just a weak case. He’s in good hands at the hospital, don’t worry, James.” “Please don’t lie to me about this, Mrs. Rogers.”_

“And I’ll shut up now. We could try out the Avengers’ gym. If we’re lucky nobody’s there or will leave if we ask nicely.”

The sudden change of subject gives the Asset whiplash, but it’s glad about it nonetheless. Outside it has started to rain and the hollow drum of water against the thick windows is unfamiliar enough to chase the memories away. It blinks a few times before it nods in agreement since Steve seems to be waiting for a confirmation.

“Jarvis? Is somebody using the Avengers’ gym at the moment?”

“No, sir. It is at your free disposal.” A voice with a British accent informs them over a well-hidden speaker.

“Great. We can just run a few laps or do some cardio exercises. Punching walls all day can’t be too entertaining.” He says with a grin, but the Asset’s thoughts went in another direction altogether.

“I thought JARVIS is Stark’s ridiculous idea of a name for his AI.”

Steve looks at it, puzzled by its words. “It is.”

“But…” the Asset is confused “he has a voice, a male voice and an accent…” then more quietly “He sounds like a person.”

“Hm, I never thought about that. Maybe you could explain it yourself, JARVIS?”

“Very well, sir. JARVIS may be the acronym for Just A Rather Very Intelligent System, but I believe master Stark wanted to honor the name of the late Edwin Jarvis, his childhood butler, who was a British male human. My voice is that of British actor Paul Bettany, as selected by master Stark himself. Does this resolve your confusion, sir?”

So Stark wants to feel like he’s talking to a person rather than a machine even though it’s not true. Just like Steve. He doesn’t want a broken thing. He wants a person, a friend, swell guy Bucky Barnes.

Something the Asset will always fail to be.

It nods “Yes, thank you.” If it weren’t for Steve’s devastatingly sad face whenever it refers to itself as a thing, a weapon, it would have long given up on the whole being-a-person mission. It’s futile and exhausting at the best of times.

Something must show on its face, because Steve asks “Are you okay?”

The Asset opens its mouth, but it’s this ridiculously difficult question again, so it doesn’t know what to say.

_“Yes.” “Stay put and expect mission parameters.”_

_“No.”_ _“Just give it some stimulants. Back at base we can wipe it properly.”_

’The Asset is at [insert number] % standard performance level’ is not a viable answer either.

[163617:26082014:user query:status report:Asset…  
                updating…  
                query result: 72 % SPL]

Urgh, yeah, no thank you. So useless. JARVIS is much better at pretending to be human…

[163619:26082014:user query via J.A.R.V.I.S.:status report:Winter Soldier…  
                updating…  
                downloading…  
                converting query result…  
                               log detail: sr_winter_soldier_163621:26082014.txt: “The Winter Soldier seems to be distressed and irritated, potentially overstrained, sir.”]

Okay, interesting. It will have to work with that since an answer is long overdue. “The Wi… A…I seem, I am distressed and ir-irritated, potentially overstrained… sir?” It stutters, realizes what it's saying and how miserably it’s failing. Bows its head and braces for impact.

“I’m sorry. You’re safe. Nobody is going to hurt you. Everything is fine.” His voice is low, grounding, projecting safety. And at least this handler, Steve, hasn’t lied so far. “I’ll get you something to drink.”

The Asset nods but still can’t look at him when he goes over to the kitchen.

The sound of the elevator doors opening startles it back to attention.

[164651:26082014:user query:status report:floor #86 hallway]

The Black Widow, just who it wanted to see. In less than a heartbeat it’s out of the room and vanished into the darkness of a corridor. If she wants to test it again it will only fail and Steve will be there to witness it.

“Hey, Steve.”

“Natasha? Hi, what can I do for you?” it hears them talk from the living room.

“I’ve heard you have company. Where is he?”

“In the bathroom.” Points for the universally plausible cover up story, penalty for the slightly higher pitched voice. But the Widow doesn’t call him out on it.

“Is he going to live here now? With you?”

“If he wants, yes.”

“Stark and I just reviewed the video footage of his cell. At least 60 % has been tampered with. That’s a lot of time we know nothing about what he did or where he was.”

“He’s not dangerous. He can do what he wants.”

“I’m not too hurt you’re ignoring my opinion, but as I understand he told you himself, that he is a danger to everyone.”

“After 70 years of torture and manipulation it can’t be easy to trust himself.”

“What will you do, if he kills someone? Someone innocent.” Now she's testing Steve instead of the Asset.

“He won't.” And he is also failing miserably.

“What. Will you do. Steve?”

“What do you want me to say? It's not his fault he was conditioned to kill for decades. Cut him some slack. He was outside already and there have been no reports of a killing spree. Really, Natasha, he’s been through so much. And he’s trying. So hard.”

“That might not be enough.”

“He more than deserves a chance to prove that it is.”

They stay silent for a long time. Though it doesn’t have to see them to know that the Black Widow is slowly but inevitably caving under his earnest gaze. Hell, the Asset doesn’t have to see it to cave under it itself.

“You’re right.” She relents. “And know you two are not alone in this.”

“I’ll keep it in mind. Thank you, Natasha.”

“Don’t thank me yet. This isn’t even why I’m here.”

“Oh don’t tell me, you actually came just to see me.”

“Definitely not, your face is smiling at me every morning when I get my cornflakes. I’m here on behalf of Stark, who is afraid to come himself, since he apparently completely botched his first impression on the Winter Soldier. Originally he wanted to send in the Iron Legion. I just thought, I’d spare him the property damage and came instead.”

[170143:26082014:user query:iron legion]

“Sure. What did he bribe you with?”

“Just a little Widow’s Bite upgrade” she singsongs innocently. “He **really** needs your phone to close the security gap.”

“My phone?”

“Yeah, JARVIS is currently scanning the shit out of his system but that will only get them so far. Tony takes an infected StarkPhone very personal. Said something about parental grief when losing a child to the dark side?”

The Asset sighs. Why did it ever show its cards? Losing the control over JARVIS will make getting around so much harder.

[170233:26082014:terminated polymorphic_virus_415 from host system sgr_sp]  
[170233:26082014:terminating polymorphic_parasite from host system J.A.R.V.I.S.…  
                backtracking polymorphic process…  
                time remaining: 01min13sec…]

Will the Asset now actually have to break into the server room to get any incriminating footage removed? At least it still has the building blueprints memorized with all air ducts, elevator shafts and emergency exits.

It walks into the living room like it was never hiding, but innocently using the bathroom. “I could really use a shave. This stuff is itchy.” It remarks casually scratching its chin, clearly not fooling the Black Widow. She follows it closely with her eyes when it flops down onto the couch and grabs the glass of water Steve abandoned on the coffee table.

Throw it in her face, shards slicing her skin bloody, flip the table, bury her under the weight, beat her until she doesn’t even twitch anymore.

It sets the glass down before it can shatter in its shaking hands. “Worth a try.” It just whispers hoarsely, hugging itself and pulling its knees up to its chest, making itself immobile, slow to react, inefficient to attack.

“How did you want to kill me this time?” She sits relaxed on the opposite couch, arms spread on the backrest, pretending to be safe.

“Natasha, don’t.” Steve defends it when there isn’t even a fight.

“First the glass to distract, then the table to restrain, then just punch your face bloody.” It murmurs. It understands why she asks and appreciates it. Not only does she want to learn its way to carry out a kill, but she also trusts the Asset to tell her the truth about it.

“Thank you for telling me.” She says with gentle honesty in her voice that could rival Steve’s.

It shakes its head minutely. “If I want you dead, you won’t see it coming.”

“If you wanted me dead I would have died in 2010 and again two weeks ago.”

When the Asset lifts its head and looks at her puzzled she adds “Odessa. You shot at my tires, car went over a cliff. When you came to check for survivors, I covered your target so you simply shot him through me.”

“Seems like I just want you to suffer.”

“Did I mention I’m terribly allergic to chocolate cake?” She deadpans and pulls out her phone. “Stark says thank you for deleting the virus.”

Steve gives her phone a disbelieving look. “Did he actually write that?”

“No I just took diplomatic liberty with the translation. His exact words are: Kidnap the Catpain! I need The Handy Hardware to re-infect Jarvis. Just bailed on our first date! Rude.”

“So my phone’s clean, too?”

The Asset eyes him for a moment, considering, then it holds out its hand. When Steve offers his phone, it grabs for his wrist instead and stares at him intensely. “He is joking, right?” It’s not sure what its face displays, but from Steve’s cautious expression it might be a lot of aggression.

“About… the kidnapping? Yes, nothing to worry about.”

“This urge to punch Stark in the face? Don’t worry.” The Black Widow says carefree, stands up and snatches Steve’s phone away. “Basic human instinct.” Turns around and leaves. “See ya.”

“See ya.” Steve echoes absently, his gaze falling to his wrist where the Asset’s fingers are cutting off his circulation.

It lets go like it’s been burned and tugs its hand back around its chest, nails digging through the thin fabric of its shirt. “Any Stark shaped punching bags in the gym?”

“Actually I think there are.” He grins, taking up its offer to ease the tension.

  


* * *

 

They start off with running parkour together, JARVIS changing it as they race each other. Level ground suddenly tilting upwards, paths giving way to pits, walls sliding up, leaving only enough time to crash through them straight away, metal arm first. Concrete dust flying into its face, while Steve manages to grapple up vertically and leap over the edges. He grins widely as the Asset tries to wipe the dust off its face without slowing down. The next time they’re confronted with a sudden obstacle, they synchronous shove each other, their strength hurling them out of the way and also getting them instantly back on track, skidding but barely missing a step.

When Steve starts to gracefully cartwheel instead of running, the Asset can’t help but to tackle him playfully into the next pit JARVIS conveniently opens at that moment.

It notices its mistake a second too late. There’s a smug smile on his lips when Steve lets himself fall backwards with the motion and just back handsprings, catapulting with ease over the pit, leaving the Asset to deal with its momentum.

Before it can recover, the ground drops away and it’s tumbling downwards, spinning its body into a headfirst dive so it can extend its arms and push itself away from the padded ground. It’s close but it lands upright beside Steve, stretching its hand out, like it needs just a little help with the balance. And Steve, of course, falls for it and gets hauled into the pit. If it weren’t for JARVIS changing sides again, lifting the ground back up and Steve just rolls onto a soft mattress. He doesn’t get up again, just lies on his back, looking up to the Asset and laughing. Laughing like the most beautiful person in the world.

It’s not nearly painful enough to watch anymore. The fire and knives scratching at the back of its skull, never reaching its eyes. Time to take it a step further.

“Stevie.”

The Asset crouches down beside him, gaze never leaving his face. Scalpels slice slowly up its throat, hooks tear at its skin while it lets itself slip further into the memories.

“Were you ashamed… of being called ‘Stevie’? Was it- Was it something the bullies called you?” it asks dazed with pain and past reflections jumbling around. A forever unsolved puzzle made of pieces either mutilated or missing.

“No, we wouldn’t let them. You and your sisters were the only ones who called me Stevie. I liked it. Now stop thinking about that.” He isn’t smiling anymore, a distressed frown warping his features.

“Smile, please.” It slurs with a soft voice, hand slowly reaching out for his face. “Stieviieeeee, please.” There's a small smile on its lips in hope Steve will reciprocate.

“Stop. Stop doing that to yourself.”

“That ’n order, Cap?”

“What...? No. It’s...” He stops talking, when Bucky presses his thumbs into the corners of Steve’s mouth, pulling them into the forced parody of a smile.

“Smile, Stevie. Smile for the happy life you had without me.” He bites his lip, tampering the grin spreading over his face. “End of the line, Stevie.” His voice is smooth and hypnotizing, projecting self-confidence like it’s 1939. He lets go of Steve’s mouth, hands gently trailing over skin, down over his chin until his fingers curl around his throat.

When Steve realizes what’s happening, he doesn’t push Bucky away, doesn’t get on his feet, neither runs nor fights. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.” Tears flow over his cheeks when he blinks.

“No!” Bucky presses down on his throat. Snarling, spit flying from his lips as he talks, face distorted with rage. “Nonono, you don’t get to be sorry! You don’t get to abandon your best friend and feel sorry about it.”

Steve lifts his hand to Bucky’s face, caressing his cheek with unwelcomed gentleness and love. Not flinching away, barely showing any discomfort when Bucky bites his fingers so hard he draws blood.

Bucky pauses, watches him struggling to breathe, releases his hand and starts to lick it clean. Copper on his tongue tasting like heaven. The weakening pulse under his fingers feeling like approaching absolution. He watches Steve die slowly, so, so slowly, savoring every moment, every second his heart takes longer to push blood through his veins. “You became a god, Steve. You don’t need me anymore. But I need you. To die. There’s nothing more just than to kill a god.” Tears flowing like rivers from his eyes, making his sight go blurry. He lowers his face, long, dark hair falling like a curtain, separating Steve and him from the rest of the world. “You broke my heart.” He lets his eyes flutter shut, his lips ghosting over Steve’s whose eyes won’t open anymore, his skin ashen, pulse barely noticeable.

_“I'm not gonna fight you.”_

“Please, tell me I’m wrong, Steve. Fight me.”

~~[185329:27082014:user query:positive  
     log detail: 24 targets identified] ~~

He can hear them coming, elevator arriving, doors opening, multiple footsteps running, glass shattering, energy burning the air, the mechanic whirring of robots.

“Last warning. Get away from him.” An electronically distorted voice demands while so many arc repulsors wind up. Gun safety clicking thrice, the string of a bow being pulled back.

But nothing matters.

Summerblue eyes stay closed and the love of his life doesn’t breathe because his hands are still squeezing his throat shut. “Never.” Bucky whispers against Steve’s skin. Rays of pure blue energy force him to let go, hurling him away from Steve while searing through his flesh. Burning away skin, muscle and sinew until white ribs threaten to turn black. The Arm hanging limp by his side, doesn’t defend, doesn’t attack.

It’s like the Howling Commandos all over again.

Natasha, Clint, Sam, Tony in his suit, the Iron Legion. Ready to defend Captain America. Ready to kill the Winter Soldier once and for all.

This is how it’s supposed to be. The villain dies and the heroes live. The insane die and the sane live. The broken things get destroyed and the humans get to live a happy life.

This is where he wants the story to end.

  


* * *

 

[offline…]

Bucky wakes up, blinks. The light is too bright. A high pitched ringing in his ears. The ceiling is too white and he can do nothing but stare at it.

“Hey, soldier.” Steve’s voice greets him, somewhere on his right. He doesn’t answer, doesn’t react. He doesn’t have the energy to kill Steve.

“I asked them, to let you wake up.” His voice is failing him. He sounds broken, hurting. “Just wanted you to know, that I’m going back into the field, again. There’s an emergency and they need me.”

“Stay safe.” Bucky croaks and he really doesn’t know why. Maybe he wants to kill Steve personally? Nobody else has as much right to kill Captain America as he does.

Steve gets up and leaves.

And the ceiling stays bright, burning into his eyes, blinding him. His arms and legs are restrained, his metal arm deactivated for good measure. He lets himself drift away, body still healing and burning through the sedatives.

  


* * *

 

Hours drift by and nobody comes for him. It’s only him and the black of his eyelids or the white of the ceiling. Only him breathing and the sound of the IV slowly dripping into his blood. Only him and…

“JARVIS…?”

“How may I be of assistance, sir?”

“Steve…?” He doesn’t know what to say. Is Steve alive? Will he come back? Does he hate him?

“How…?” …many days will Steve be gone? …long until JARVIS will pump him full of sedatives again? …long until he can finally die?

“Please…” …I want to see him. …let me go. …just end it.

“Sir? You need to be more specific.”

“Let me go?”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir.”

It’s silent again and the hours go by.

“Jarvis? What day is it?”

“It’s the 31st August, 2014, sir. About 6 o’clock in the afternoon.

“Thank you.”

_“Wipe him and start over.”_

“Did you say something, JARVIS?”

“No. sir. Would you like some music?”

“No!” it would distract him, deafen him. If somebody comes he wants to know as soon as possible. “No, thank you.”

“Very well, sir.”

“JARVIS, what happened?”

“You attacked Captain Rogers, who needed to be revived through CPR. He survived and recovered within 24 hours. You on the other hand were severely wounded by multiple repulsor beams and stayed unconscious for four days.”

“Where is he now?”

“I’m terribly sorry, sir, but you have been denied access to this kind of information.”

_“Silly, little thing, you don’t need to know that.”_

“Would you tell me, if he died on his mission?”

“Yes, I am allowed to relay that information.”

“Okay… You gonna put me under again?”

“As long as you stay docile, you are allowed to stay awake, sir.”

“Oh. Can I still take you up on that offer to play some music?”

“Of course, sir. What would you like to hear?”

“Something from the thirties?”

It hurts. A lot. The memories waiting just under the surface, ready to strike, swallow him whole. Of girls dancing, Steve sitting in the corner. Smiles and conversations about everything and nothing at all. Skirts twirling around, red lips, soft lips on his, kissing and caressing. Steve looking so lost and alone when the girls just ignored him. Bucky never wanted him to feel left out, but it’s so easy to dance with the girls. So easy to feel appreciated, so easy to feel good, to have a great time.

The serum changed everything.

“Pardon, sir, but might I recommend another genre of music?”

“No!” there are tears in his eyes he couldn’t hold back, there’s pain crawling over his skin, but he knows he deserves it. He’s trembling and twitching all over, but he forces the memories to stay. Of days working at the docks, slaving away for every penny, coming home to Steve. Coming home to Steve when he was sick, lying in bed, too weak to stand up, coughing and wheezing, withering away. Some days like hell, when Steve doesn’t even open his eyes anymore. Needing to be taken care of, fed and washed. Some days like heaven, when Steve is already home, turns around ‘Hey, Buck’ and smiles. Smiles like everything’s alright, like they don’t have to worry about rent or medications, like the world can’t hurt them, like the war in Europe is still happening but the day of infamy didn’t.

‘Hey, Buck’ and the world is okay.

‘Hey, Buck’ and he didn’t fall from the train.

‘Hey, Buck’ and Steve jumped with him into the abyss, into the snow, into the never ending pain.

He’s crying now, nose running, ugly sobs escaping his throat. He wants to curl up on himself but the restrains won’t let him. Wants to be the smallest thing in the universe. Wants to be nothing.

Doesn’t want to be the person Steve abandoned. Doesn’t want to be the person Steve doesn’t need. Doesn’t want to be the person Steve hates.

The music is gone.

“JARVIS? Please let me go.”

“I’m terribly sorry, sir.”

[changing energy source]  
[rebooting…]

“This isn’t gonna end well.”

[reboot complete]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Встать на колени. Положить руки за голову. Подчиняться. - Get on your knees. Put your hands behind your head. Comply.
> 
> “Уступать!” - “Stand down!”
> 
> [Tony's car^^](http://www.car-revs-daily.com/2014/07/09/2014-w-motors-lykan-hypersport/)  
>    
> \---  
> yay for cliffhangers!  
> thank you so much for reading :)


	3. wasn’t worth it after all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sir, I’m terribly sorry to interrupt your escape, but there seems to be an intrusion on the upper floors.  
> I believe the hostiles to be of Hydra and was wondering if you might be interested in assisting to eliminate the threat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought the Arm couldn’t get more op? You were wrong.  
>  **This isn’t even my final form!**  
>   
>  Small warning for the teeny-tiny implication of past attemted but 95 % denied rape. It's a slap to the face, though, compared to the torture and violence you've read through so far.  
>   
> suggested songs:  
> ["Cage of Bone" by Son Lux (nightcore version)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9iEI-sfZXVo)  
> ["human" by Sevdaliza](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9t7SclAXoQw)

* * *

  


He wants to see Steve so badly. To kill or to hug, he doesn’t know and he doesn’t care. But Steve is gone, somewhere in the world on a mission, and has left Bucky with only one other target to rip apart. First of all, he has to get out of this tower, though.

Flashes of light spark between the shifting metal plates of the Arm, trying to escape their prison. Glowing bright, alien blue behind black bars and flailing out with excessive power, caressing the adjacent skin with stabs of pain.

The cuffs burst like wood, splintering instead of bending. The first thing Bucky grabs for is the IV in his flesh arm, rips it out before JARVIS can infect his blood with sedatives again. The other restraints are next, giving barely any resistance at all.

“Please calm down, sir. Security will arrive at any moment.”

“Oh fuck off, JARVIS.”

“Very well, sir.”

He scoffs at the politeness, gets up and takes stock of his bodily state. He’s dressed in a simple white hospital gown again, his chest wrapped with multiple layers of bandages, already threatening to soak through with red. The pain is far too familiar to be a distraction from his escape. To his regret the room has no window so he stalks to the reinforced door, drives the metal fingers into the thick material and just jerks it backwards. The Arm whirring loudly under the strain, but the door yields, deforming and tearing clean off its hinges and he can’t help but smile.

Security consists of three robots of the Iron Legion, quick, strong, no holding back. When he crushes their heads and spines he’s not sure if he’s relieved they’re not human.

After that it’s easy going. It’s a long way down but the only obstacles are more doors giving way like brittle paper. Maybe Stark doesn’t want to lose any employees. The Avengers, though, are definitely not in New York anymore.

“Sir, I’m terribly sorry to interrupt your escape, but there seems to be an intrusion on the upper floors. I believe the hostiles to be of Hydra and was wondering if you might be interested in assisting to eliminate the threat.”

He pauses on the stairs, wishing JARVIS had a face he could fix with a highly irritated look. Or a form that would betray its intentions through body language.

“You really think I’d fall for that?”

Suddenly a blue screen appears in the air in front of him and he flinches awkwardly back before focusing on the video playing. It's dark outside, the two black helicopters on the landing platform of the tower only barely illuminated. The black clad agents swarming about, pointing their guns at every shadow, are cutting the glass doors open. On the left side of the screen JARVIS has zoomed in on several dark sleeves showing Hydra's logo. The sight of the red skull and tentacles alone makes Bucky's blood boil with hatred.

“If this is a trap, JARVIS. I’ll replace you with Windows.”

“As you wish, sir.” The AI sounds so resigned, Bucky has to wonder if it has already heard that threat before. “I’ve taken the liberty to send for an elevator. If you would just step out the door, please.”

He hesitates only a moment longer, but his skin is already crawling with the starving urge to hurt Hydra, to break every last bone and rip their bodies apart. So he throws every caution into the wind and leaves the stairwell. The elevator is already waiting, light shining invitingly through the dark corridor. The doors close with a soft swish and the lift moves upwards. Nothing but a soft humming and the glowing numbers indicate any movement.

“Sir, I’ve arranged for a stopover on the Avengers’ training floor. You’ll find tactical gear, weapons and clothing in approximately your size in locker 2 to your right.”

“You spoil me.” He snarls, not completely convinced that there won’t be a trap waiting to snap shut.

The process is disturbingly familiar. Waking up, briefed for a mission, provided with gear. But he can always say no. Go fuck yourself. I’m off. He can always just leave, let Hydra take the tower, rig it, blow it up, let them do whatever they want and have the Avengers deal with the mess. Though Hydra is probably here for him anyway, attacking when the tower is empty and unprotected. They deserve the worst of what’s coming for them, set as an example. A bloodbath is everything they can expect when they’re looking for a fight with their own creation. The Winter Soldier was made to kill. It’s all he knows, all he can and all he needs to deal with Hydra.

He stares unmoving at the contents of the locker. Two sets of black clothes. Belts and holsters. Fingerless gloves and heavy boots. And a uniform. Blue, white, red. A five-pointed star and vertical stripes. The sight burned into his mind, burns in his eyes.

“JARVIS…”

“Captain Rogers is of comparable physical build to yourself, sir.”

He sighs, fingers only inches from touching the colorful fabric, flinching away to grab decidedly for the black. When he dresses with quick movements the laundry detergent stings in his nose. Of course they don’t smell like Steve. What did he expect?

The alien energy glowing in his Arm is already burning through the sleeve, so he just rips it off. He’s used to the shiny metal reflecting and potentially giving his position away, but this is a whole new level of homing beacon for the enemy. He can’t switch back to the electric energy source, he tried. Whatever Stark did to it doesn’t seem to be easily reversible. But if he can’t be a ghost he’ll be a wildfire, destroying everything in his path.

He takes three handguns, a rifle and six knives from a rack. Checks and loads the weapons before stripping them in. The metal under his fingers, the weight on his body send a shiver of anticipation down his spine. When he steps back into the elevator he can’t help but smile.

  


* * *

 

Far below the city is still awake, cars driving by, lights blinking in the night. Up here the floor of the common room is dark, the minute glow falling through the windows the only light. Dust floating through the air, the hum of a fridge filling the background. Silent steps on wood, cloth ruffling with movement. Breathing and heartbeats quickened by adrenaline. A dozen bodies in the room, waiting to be killed.

When the first shot rings through the silence and the first corpse touches the ground, they instantly whirl around, taking a defensive formation.

When the second shot fells another one, they know where he’s hiding. Bullets piercing the air like horizontal rainfall, shredding the corner of the wall, chipping concrete. He’s already gone though, only a blue streak trailing behind.

The next time he attacks, he’s much closer, sprinting short distances, taking cover before he’s finally close enough. Deflecting bullets with the Arm, precise and too quick to see, until he can grab one of the retreating agents. He turns, spins round and hurls the screaming body into the others. The distraction giving him the chance to duck away and go for another, slitting their throat with ease while shooting the next one point blank, ending his movement in a low crouch behind the agent pawing desperately at their bleeding neck.

Five are still left standing, fanning out to negate his living cover. He can smell their sweat and fear sating the air and revels in it, a feral smile curling his lips. A laugh bubbling up in his chest as one takes cover, aims and gets a bullet between the eyes for their trouble.

_“Oh sweet, little thing, you did so well.”_

His cover finally collapses, writhing in pain on the ground, and he has to retreat quickly backwards to avoid being shot. “JARVIS, lights.” He closes his eyes.

Every lamp in the room is suddenly shining bright. It disorients the Hydra agents only for a second, the auto-gating instantly reducing the light-intake of their NVDs. A second is all he needs. One, two, three, four bodies hit the blood stained floor before he bothers to open his eyes again. But the remaining ones have picked themselves up by now, forcing him to dive for cover under their renewed hail of bullets.

“Sputnik!”

And he laughs himself silly. Because how can they not know, the trigger phrase is nothing more than a rumor? Sputnik was the pride of the Soviet space program, not an uncommon word at all.

He’s still laughing when two grenades bounce off the ground beside him and he throws a pair of knives directly from their sheets to knock them away. Shielding his head with the Arm he gets away mostly unscathed, the shrapnel glancing off the metal or burying itself into the Kevlar of his clothes.

While his senses recover from the blasts, he barely notices the agents moving around, converging on his position. Now there are no moves left for him. His Arm is slowly but surely overheating, the alien energy searing through the clothes, branding red gashes into his skin. The enemy has him surrounded and pinned down behind a half blown cover. He gets up on his feet, sprinting away, relying on nothing but his speed to keep him unharmed from their crossfire.

It nearly happens as he thinks himself save behind a corner. He can barely whip his head to the side when he hears the telltale click of triggers pulled. Bullets slice through his hair, burrowing deep into the concrete. He moves with the momentum, letting himself fall into a roll, while the wall behind him gets riddled with holes, and flees. Seven agents close on his heels, now that backup from the helicopters has joined the fight.

He doesn’t bother with the door, just battering through, and leaping upwards a whole flight of steps at a time. Before his pursuers enter the stairwell he pauses, three stories further up and aims for the door. They’re not stupid enough to follow, though, probably knowing the floors plans like he does. There are two more staircases leading up, as well as the elevator shaft. With them outnumbering him they can simply take several routes and he won’t be able to cover them all.

“Any ideas, JARVIS?”

“There’s a panic room on the next floor, sir.”

He looks up, again wishing for a face to snarl at, as he realizes the setup. He’ll be safe there, sure, but JARVIS won’t let him go until the Avengers return. Not even the Arm will get him out of a room made to withstand the level of threat Iron Man has to deal with.

“How do you feel about Windows 8, JARVIS? You could still be an app, wasting away right between Internet Explorer and Skype.”

“Sir, I am only concerned for your well-being.”

It’s just an AI, he would never know if it’s telling the truth. It doesn’t have feelings or opinions, it only serves its creator. He’s too familiar with programming to mistake JARVIS’ motivation for anything else. “No, you’re not. You’re supposed to care for Stark, so you care for Rogers and he’s stupid enough to care for some deranged serial killer.”

“I believe you to have suffered enough.” Its inflection is so soft, so sincere, so human it hurts.

“You don’t know shit.” He hasn’t even begun to suffer for the pain and misery he brought onto mankind. There is no chance at redemption waiting for him. All he can do is cleanse the world of Hydra and after that find a nice, cozy place to lie down and die, drag Steve down with him to hell. Then everybody who’s at fault will be dead.

  


* * *

 

When they come for him, he’s kneeling on the floor, hand behind his head, staring at nothing. His weapons fanned out in front of him, the Arm deactivated to make him less of a threat. They don’t bother to fool around, injecting him with a sedative designed for his enhanced metabolism and dragging his limb body to the helicopters while he slowly loses consciousness.

  


* * *

 

His eyes are open long before the world drips back through the haze of cotton. He tries to blink away the dizziness only to see a very cruel smile on a face scarred nearly unrecognizable.

“Welcome back, Asset.” Rumlow’s tone is vibrating with satisfaction. “Had enough of playing human?”

Bucky so badly wants to take a knife to that face and mess it up even further. He’ll carve a smile through his cheeks to stay forever, fuck it, he’ll forego the knife and rip his lips apart with his bare hands. As he lifts his arms reality comes crashing down, though, like running full speed against a wall. He's tied down to a chair, multiple strips of thick metal winding themselves around his body. At his head, his arms, his hips, his legs. Forcing him immobile still when the sedative will be long gone. They stripped his torso bare, revealing a barely healed wound covering half his chest.

Rumlow watches his feeble attempt to fight the restraints, seemingly mesmerized by his struggle, eyes roaming with interest over his straining muscles, tongue darting out to lick burned lips. “You’re just such a slut for pain, aren’t you?”

Bucky spits at him but his lips are numb, his tongue leaden and now there's viscid saliva drooling down his chin. It earns him a sweet grin full of teeth and the cold bite of a knife caressing the sweat covered skin of his belly, catching on his navel.

“How’s Rogers these days? You ran back to him, didn’t you?” Rumlow asks conversationally. “Like his obedient, little bitch. Did you two hug it all out? Seventy years of torture unmade by his mere touch.” He trails a hand down the side of Bucky’s chest, gently following the indentations of his muscles. “That what you expected would happen?” And follows the wake of his fingertips with a slash of his knife, parting skin and revealing flesh flooding with blood. The blade must be drenched in some kind of chemical, because the pain burns like ice through his nerves despite the numbing sedative. “You know better.” Rumlow’s whispering close to his ear now, the hot breath itching over his neck causing his hair to stand on end. His hands continue to roam over Bucky’s defenseless body. Every touch chased by an acid incision he can’t escape. “You know you don’t deserve him.”

“Yeah, I know. So shut the fuck up, deadshit.” Bucky slurs, fed up with his words since the first time Rumlow opened his mouth.

He pauses, blade resting over his ribs, and eyes Bucky thoughtfully. “That’s why you’re here. You really do remember him, but you don’t **want** to.” His smile turns bright and vicious, tugging at his scars. “So, you came back for a wipe.”

“Gonna make me beg for it? Again?” A wave of nausea hits him when he rolls his eyes unimpressed to make a point. But the flicker of ire in Rumlow’s eyes is totally worth it, so he can even bring himself to add a crooked grin.

“Oh you’ll beg and grovel at my feet and scream your throat bloody.”

“Sure thing, maybe lick your boots and suck your dick, too? Please,” he exaggeratedly moans and writhes in his restraints, “I’ll be so good for you.”

“Like anyone’s going to fall for that.”

“Again.” Bucky adds and takes care to show all of his new teeth while he smiles predatory.

“I’m gonna burn your pretty face off!” He snaps before he lowers his voice again. “We’ll look like twins, you and I. Rogers won’t ever recognize you.”

“It’ll heal, Rumlow, you should know that.” He can play it cool. He’ll go all weepy soon enough when the machine comes down over his head to scramble up his brain. “You really think you have anything new to add to seventy years of hell?”

“Don’t have to. After the wipe you won’t remember, only your body will. It’ll be fun.”

“It’ll be a goddamn shitshow and I’ll make sure you’ll be the last one I kill.”

“Oh no. You’ll never come back from this one. You’re dead, Sergeant Barnes.”

And Bucky flinches at his name because ghost hands are whispering over his skin _“My name is James Buchanan Barnes”_ and saw the flesh from his bones. _“Sergeant”_ Finger after finger. _“3, 2, 5… 5, 7…“_ Joint for joint. _“Repeat, Soldier.”_ Repeat as soon as it all grows back.

Rumlow is laughing smugly. “I’ll get the doctors then. Time to put your brain back in the blender.”

  


* * *

 

Bucky can barely scream through the rubber in his mouth. He’s breathing heavily through his nose, eyes open wide with horror. The clamps around his head so familiar and the pain slicing through his brain is carving out his thoughts like an old friend.

Minutes or hours later the electric current is shut off and he can finally think again.

“Good morning, Soldier.” Rumlow says and takes the rubber out of his mouth.

“Fuck off, fuck face.” A genius retort considering how his brain feels.

“Wipe him.”

  


* * *

 

All-embracing pain burns out his skull, his brain and his memories. He’s crying, hot tears streaming down his face. He’s screaming, a name he has been screaming since 1943. Screaming for Steve to save him from this nightmare. In another world he comes every time. Cocky grin on his lips, shield in his hand, and fire in his eyes like a seraph descended to raze the world.

In this world he came only one time out of thousands.

Only when the name on his lips warps into incoherent wailing, the agony stops. His whole body twitches with the aftershock, current still worming and tearing through his muscles. Copper fills his mouth, blood spills through his chipped teeth, drops warm from his chin.

“Good morning, Soldier.” A familiar voice says.

“Я готов отвечать.”

“Designation?”

_~~“You're name is James”~~ _

“Project Winter Soldier, subject number 749...” His teeth are clattering through the words.

“Status report?”

 _ ~~“You’re~~_ _a person.”_ …What? No. Killing and killing and “Killing and...” He’s desperately grappling for thoughts, for anything to make sense again.

“Mission parameters?”

“Information denied.”

“Information denied?” Rumlow echoes wryly and scoffs. “Why?”

There is a hole in his head. There is no mission. There is only ~~a gentle~~ smile ~~, a face with~~ bright blue eyes like the summersky. There is only Steve, who is safe and happy with his new friends. Steve, who left him, again. “Please tell Rogers,” Bucky grins though he feels himself slipping away, maybe for the last time. “When you gotta go, you gotta go.”

“Wipe him again.”

  


* * *

 

The asset does not dream.

It does not dream of Bucky and Steve after the war.

It does not dream how Steve leaves Bucky behind and fights on without him.

Steve is smiling to himself on a night out. Dressed to his best, suit and shield. Explosions paint the black sky warm with fire. Smoke fills the air, burned bones and spilled blood smell of cowardice. He has come to save his lover from Hades, instead of joining him through death like true love would have demanded of him.

Bucky meets him in a wide, empty street. Houses once familiar collapsed, spilling century old waste and rubble onto the asphalt. Ice and snow cover the broken remains of a castle in the sky destroyed in 1945.

Steve doesn’t smile at Bucky and Bucky doesn’t smile back.

Please, don't make me do this.

Steve isn’t frozen anymore.

Bucky isn’t Bucky anymore.

Steve doesn’t fight back, he never fights back. Drops his shield like he doesn’t deserve to defend himself. I'm not gonna fight you.

Bucky aims and takes the shot. He always takes the shot and he always aims to miss.

Every time Bucky kills Steve, he wakes up. Bucky doesn’t want to wake up. A world without Steve is not worth waking up in.

Cause I'm with you ‘til the end of the line.

It does not dream how Steve leaves Bucky behind and fights on without him.

It does not dream of Bucky and Steve after the war.

The asset does not dream.

Bucky did.

  


* * *

 

The body exists.

Pain defines its edges. Cuts its humanoid shape from the world.

Its flesh writhing in agony. Lips forming an unknown name.

“Good morning, Soldier.” Somebody says.

The body is restrained. Unable to kill.

“Я готов отвечать.”

“Designation?”

“Project Winter Soldier, Subject #749, Object WS_01.”

Somebody smiles a wide, toothy smile.

“Status report.”

An uninhabited wasteland in its skull burned black and bare from the inside out.

“Killing and survival skillset available. Emergency behavior protocol available. Handler manual available.”

“Mission parameters?”

“Primary programming: kill humans.”

“You think I don’t know you’re fakin’ it, Sarge? Three times ’s a charm, four times gets the job done. Wipe him.”

  


* * *

 

They had always known there was one thing worse than a disobedient weapon: an obedient weapon in the hands of the enemy.

They designed its first instinct: to kill.

Its first reaction: to kill.

Its first mission: to kill.

Until the weapon gets subdued by the correct trigger phrase.

Those two things they buried as deep as they could beneath layers and layers of combat training, mission protocols and handler orders. So deep they never realized there was a difference. Killing had always been a part of Bucky Barnes, submission on the other hand not.

The Winter Soldier has outlived every last one of its own creators. There is no one left to notice when the voltage is turned up so high it burns away trigger phrases and decades worth of conditioning from its memory like paper from a wall.

The weapon kills until there’s only one human left breathing.

The once grey concrete of the floor is painted red up high into every corner. Corpses litter the ground, torn apart and chopped up to pieces. They have no faces only broken skulls, and teeth glistening white against the smashed meat. There’s hardly any difference between the inside of its head and the outside anymore.

“Thank you for setting me free. You deserve a head start.” It says, voice broken from a shredded throat.

The black haired man scrambles to his feet, stumbles over the drenched floor, out the door. The weapon follows languidly, it has all the time in the world to catch up.

There is little skill and even less grace to the massacre it causes to any resistance it encounters in the corridors. It is strong and fast, the metal arm the only cover and weapon it uses. Irrational with barely any regard for self-preservation. It’s by far enough to be unstoppable, an animal in frenzy no sane human has the mindset to deal with.

_“Kill. Them. All.”_

Tearing through their ranks like child’s play is one thing, making sure the head is not only severed but the stump cauterized is a whole other problem. The knowledge, the weapon might have had once, about a trigger for the self-destruct sequence for the base was erased, though.

When it feels explosions shaking the walls and ceiling of the basement, it realizes someone decided to bring the whole building down on it, sacrificing their followers in the process who stand no chance to evacuate in time. The weapon picks up speed, smashing and tearing down every barrier the lock-down puts in its way. In the stairwell it drops on all fours and vaults up the flights like a big cat, leaving bloody tracks behind. A trail some agents happily follow until another explosion rips the whole stair case apart, forcing the weapon to jump the gaps and climb its way to the surface.

After punching its way through several blocks of debris and concrete it finally reaches the open sky. The sun is just rising, the summer air chilly and clean from the night if it weren’t for the dust still settling from the explosions. Birds are already singing in the distance greeting just any other day in life. It’s standing in the middle of a crater in something that must have been part of a wheat field before the underground base collapsed. When it crawls up to the edge and looks around there is nothing on the horizon but a grove to the left and a dust cloud far away to the right. No sign of human presence only a lone plane in the sky and a dusty road cutting a straight line through the fields. Roads usually lead somewhere so it’s as good a plan as any to follow it.

  


* * *

 

Pathetic ‘s what it is. Any adrenaline left from the fight is gone within the next fifteen minutes or so. As soon as exhaustion and pain come crashing down and flood its empty brain with agony, the weapon stumbles only a few steps further until it collapses on the side of the road like a sack of bricks. Wound for wound it registers in its own flesh just how reckless it had been while slaughtering everything with a heartbeat. Blood is seeping from gashes and bullet holes, leaving its body cold and lethargic, withering away. The energy from the left arm is lashing out more and more as the metal overheats further, adding burns and blisters to the already sore skin. The mental effort is exhausting, especially since it doesn’t have the faintest idea what it’s doing, but after a while it succeeds in shutting it down. Other than that the weapon can only stare dazed at the sand and gravel before its eyes, a mess of wet, singed hair hiding the world from its gaze, while unconsciousness creeps up cowardly but never strikes.

  


* * *

 

Just as its sight turns grey and blurry, the air is slowly filling with wind and loud roaring. Then the ground tilts, gives way for sky and faces. The weapon tries, it tries really hard to focus and to move. The humans are just begging for the next manslaughter. As soon as the weapon can move more than its pinky. Killing would make the pain go away.

“…hear me? Everything’s gonna be okay. We’re here to help you.” One of the faces says, projecting honest concern and… guilt? The weapon obviously fails at reading human expressions. “Sam’s gonna do some first aid while we’re flying back to the tower, okay?” The voice sounds alarmingly distressed now, causing the weapon to feel restless as it can do nothing to appease.

They lift it onto a stretcher and carry it into some kind of jet where it’s cool and dim.

“Talk to me, please.” This is getting exhausting. The weapon shouldn’t have to deal with that much attention. It’s not a person. To treat it as such is just ridiculous and highly irritating. The weapon lets its eyes drift away from the annoying face, carefully avoiding the other, too, and watches the last of the sky while the door closes. Like everything else it’s monochrome, black and white. Blue would have been such a nice color.

There might be a hand in its hair? It can’t feel much through the haze of pain.

“Do you know who I am?” Suddenly the voice is commanding, and the weapon can’t stop its eyes from flickering back to the face and genuinely look at it for the first time. The person is probably male, considering the deep voice, sharp jaw and remarkable wide shoulders. His hair is short and some shade of bright, his eyes are clear even in the dim light of the plane. In human terms he might be described as beautiful or intimidating. The weapon on the other hand doesn’t care, except the look on his face turns unbearably sad when it doesn’t answer.

A hand appears on his shoulder. A man with dark skin and even darker eyes. “Come on, now’s not the time. Get us airborne. I’ll do what I can, but he needs medical attention as soon as possible.”

The fair-haired man hesitates only for a second before he nods tersely and leaves without another glance. In his absence the weapon feels strangely lonely, as if a cloud just blocked out the sun.

“Hey, I don’t think we’ve ever been introduced. I’m Sam Wilson. I was a paramedic in the army, so I have at least some kind of idea what I’m doing.” He keeps talking about wounds and cuts and stitches and bandages and painkillers. Narrates everything he does, telegraphs his movements as if not to startle it and touches its body gently as if not to cause it more pain.

All the weapon wants to do is kill him. Everything just to stop him from treating it like a human being with feelings and suffering and caring and all that shit. It’s all too much. This isn’t hostile behavior, this is worse. “Shut up.” It tries to spit at him but out comes nothing more than a hoarse croak.

He dares to give it a pitying look so the weapon bares its teeth at him. Hopefully they’re still bloody and grimy with human flesh, giving it the predatory appearance it wants to exude. The weapon frowns when his expression turns even more concerned instead of disgusted or afraid.

Words, it needs words. It starts tapping with its pinky.

..-. ..- -.-. -.-   --- ..-. ..-.

At least he notices the small movement instantly, pauses as he stitches one of the deeper cuts together. “Really?” He asks with the tilt of an unimpressed eyebrow. “That’s all you have to say to me? ‘Fuck off’? Didn’t they teach you any manners back in the… Guess you of all people should be allowed to forget your manners.” He continues with needle and thread until the gash is closed up. “I need you to answer me one question seriously, though. Do you want morphine against the pain?”

There are enough reasons for a clear ‘no’, so the weapon doesn’t hesitate to tell him. It even shakes its head and the resulting wave of nausea knocks it nearly out. It can’t help but be surprised, though, as it realizes he accepts its answer with a nod.

“Thought so. JARVIS told us, Hydra sedated you when... they took you. I just hope you can believe me when I say, we don’t want to hurt you. Well, as long as you don’t hurt us, that is.” His eyes flicker up from the bullet wound he’s cleaning to the weapon’s face and he lets out a long suffering sigh. “Of course you’d want to hurt us. You don’t even know who we are.” He concentrates on one of the numerous wounds for a while before he speaks again. “Clearly I’m out of my depth here. But I’m sure big guy here,” he jerks his head in the direction of the cockpit, “will manage to convince you of our good intentions.”

The weapon does not understand anything he says. Convincing means torture, why doesn’t he simply call it by its name? Good intention means killing those who don’t fit the idea, no point sugarcoating it. The human continues to talk more nonsense so the weapon decides, even if it can’t kill him, yet, it doesn’t have to listen to this crap. It bides its time and lets itself drift off into a vigil state of disinterest. Replaces sound with silent static and pain with numbness.

After a while it slips further away. It doesn’t want to but there’s nothing real enough anymore to keep it grounded. The jet lands somewhere high up and the weapon gets carried into a building all glass and metal and sleek. As the white coats and clinic faces appear it gets sucked away into detached oblivion. Voices talking, arguing, somebody taking scans, cleaning the multiple wounds, bandaging them up, taking blood samples, prodding chipped bones, more bandages, prying out bullets, so much arguing. It all melts into a blurry mash of movement and sound.

Before they finally leave, they strip off the shredded pants, chain its body down to a bed and stab needles into its flesh. It’s all happening far away in another place, another time, doesn’t matter, doesn’t concern.

For some reason the weapon expects ice and snow to follow, a window freezing over with rime, drowning in darkness and silence. The time intended to close its eyes and sleep if there ever is any. No missions, no nightmares, no awaking for years to come.

  


* * *

 

But the cold never comes and so sleep doesn’t either. Instead the weapon returns to a familiar voice talking a steady stream of words. “…you up pretty bad. Doctor Cho says it’ll take your body about a week to heal up. Longer if your version of the serum isn’t as effective as mine. Most important is that you rest and-

“Why don’t I want to kill you?” It murmurs, head buried in the warmth and softness of a pillow. It’s a strange sensation to be in the presence of someone and not wanting him to scream in pain and bleed to death. Maybe it’s just because the weapon is floating high on fluffy clouds, not feeling anything itself. Apparently they gave it painkillers after all, but it doesn’t really feel cross about it. If it’s honest the indolent sensation is actually nice.

Either it slipped away again or he hesitates with his answer. “Must be my pretty face and charming personality.” He jokes, tone light but underneath he’s nervous.

This isn’t even funny anymore. Why does the weapon feel bad for making him nervous? “Are you the charge of an escort mission?” That would explain the creeping urge to protect him.

“You could say that. A very **long** escort mission.” He makes a face like he’s in pain before he steels himself. “What do you remember?”

The weapon wrecks its memories for a better answer, but in the end it can only tell him “Killing.”

“Killing who?”

“Everyone.”

He winces.

“Humans.” It tries again.

His eyes turn desperate and sad.

“Killing them… is wrong?” It asks hesitantly, only guessing by his facial expression. When he chokes on the answer, the weapon is unable to bear his gaze any longer and turns its head away. “It’s everything I know.”

“You should get some sleep. I’m sure you’ll remember more tomorrow.” His tone is flat, but his breath hitches slightly, betraying his emotions.

“I opened my eyes today for the first time, sitting in that chair deep underground. There is nothing else to remember.”

“And yet you don’t want to kill me.”

“Apparently I was designed to protect you.”

“You weren’t des-…” He lets his hand slip over his face, angry features turning exhausted like he can barely stand the conversation anymore. “Just… trust me on this. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It can do nothing but watch him turn his back and leave, barely fighting down the feeling of distress at his hurt face.

Not until the door has long shut behind him and its brain is still taunting it with an echo of his heartbeat, it whispers in undeniable horror: “Don’t leave me.”

  


* * *

 

The weapon hadn't expected to fall asleep, then again it's more of a brutal shut-down than softly drifting to unconsciousness.

It only partly wakes up again, when the fair-haired human comes back and talks. None of his words register, though. Its brain is hurting, an unthinking mess of incoherent thoughts.

His features are steeled but his eyes glistening with sorrow. It can’t deal with this. It wants to sleep again, favors the numb darkness over his sad, blue eyes. It wants to sleep for days, for years, for centuries. Slip into painless unconsciousness to never wake up again.

But under the darkness dead eyes are watching.

  


* * *

 

_It’s lying on the ground._

_White tiles soaked through with red._

_It’s not alone. It’s alone. All around corpses are lying._

_Dead eyes, open mouths, cold skin._

_“Вставай.”_ _Someone orders._

_It sits up, hands empty and loose. Blood flowing lazily down its chest._

_Nothing hurts. Everything hurts._

_Dead eyes, open mouths, cold skin._

_The doors open. The doors close._

_Corpses stand in the corners. Reeking of fear, are sweet with fear._

_They fear the monster in the middle of the room._ _Коще_ _́_ _й_ _Бессме_ _́_ _ртный_ _._

_Watching, breathing, waiting for nothing but the order to kill._

_Dead eyes, open mouths, cold skin._

_Please, the corpses cry, please, we are innocent._

_ “Убей всех.” _

_Please, the corpses beg, please don’t kill us._

_ “Убей всех.” _

_Please, the corpses whisper._

_ “Убей всех.” _

_Dead eyes, open mouths, cold skin._

  


* * *

 

The fair-haired man comes back and this time the weapon can’t even fake to be asleep any longer, his face like a magnet, holding its gaze hostage. It’s a strange thing to admit, but it missed him.

“Did you remember something?” The hopeful glint in his eyes is disgusting.

“You don’t want to know.” It grits through clenched teeth, finally managing to turn its head away. Wishing itself deaf when his voice is unbearably soft as he says: “I do. Please, don’t shut me out.”

With every ounce of spite it can find it tells him: “Since you’re not too fond of killing people, killing innocent civilians is probably worse.”

“Why did you kill them?” His features are hard, forced emotionless, like he doesn’t want to know the answer.

“I was ordered to.” It says lightly and realizes at the same time that he already knew it.

But he doesn’t drop it. “What would have happened if you didn’t kill them?”

“Nothing?” It’s an irritating question. “I don’t know. It’s not an option to defy an order.”

“So you would do it again?”

“Of course.”

That finally shuts him up, eyes wide, staring at the weapon like it’s a human being that should have a conscience. His expectations are pitched far too high, it’s not fair. The weapon was made like this, never had a choice, never had the luxury to make decisions.

“If you don’t want that, just don’t order me to. I don’t see the problem here.” It snarls filled with anger.

“What do **you** want?” he asks, not letting himself get riled up. Going by the slight twitch of his eyes it’s a close call, though.

His calmness causes the weapon’s anger to evaporate without something to latch on, leaving it feeling weak and drained. “For you to be safe and unharmed.” It doesn’t sound right, the words are not really describing what it wants, but it can’t think of better ones.

“So you don’t want to kill.” He concludes wrongly and very nearly smiles.

It physically hurts, when the weapon has to crush his expression with its next words. “Killing is not an option, it’s mandatory.” And the anger is back, because he’s already steeling himself, prepared to endure it all, continues to be a self-sacrificing idiot. He wants to stay, wants to convince it that killing is wrong. All while he doesn’t understand, a weapon is meant to kill. Pull the trigger, strike out, cut through every target with indifference. A weapon has no concept of right or wrong. “Just… Just point me at someone who wants to hurt you. I’ll kill them, no questions asked, I’ll kill them all. You don’t have to be here. You think I can't see how you're hurting when you look at me, let alone talk to me? I can’t make you happy!” And that’s the word it was missing. Happy. It wants him to be happy and that excludes itself.

“That’s not true.” He says it with so much conviction in his voice, straightens his back, lifts his chin in defiance, the weapon could almost believe him.

Instead it gives him a bitter laugh. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”

“You’ll get better. You’ll overcome what Hydra did to you. You’ve done it before.”

Now he’s just talking pure nonsense. “Who's Hydra?” It picks on of the many things that don’t make sense, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

The man loses his confidence and mirrors its confusion. “You don’t remember Hydra.” It’s as much a statement as a question.

“But I should.” It tries carefully to gauge his expectation.

His laugh is a joyless and dry one. “I think you do remember them. They are the reason you want to kill everyone. They took everything from you. Made you into-” He snaps his mouth shut and looks away. Hands are fisted tight and trembling with rage.

The weapon has seen and heard enough, though. While his words make no sense, the hatred and ingrained disdain the man displays for the first time does. “They hurt you.” It whispers, half afraid to be the next target of his fury.

But his features instantly turn sad and frantic with guilt as his eyes flicker back to the weapon. “No! They hurt **you**! They hurt you and it’s my fault.”

“That’s okay. I don’t remember it anyway.” It says lightly with the best impression of a smile it can manage. But he’s tearing up and it doesn’t know what to say or what to do.

“That’s not… You can’t… You…” He’s hunches up and hides his face in both hands, drowning in guilt so heavy he’ll break sooner rather than later.

“I forgive you. Is that what you need to hear?” It attempts to understand him, give him what he needs so he’ll stop blaming himself. Slowly it grows desperate trying to soothe him.

“You can’t forgive me for something you don’t even remember.”

“Then tell me what happened.”

“I- I can’t. They told me not to push your memory. The last time I did that it didn’t end well.”

“Can’t be worse than this.”

“This?” He chuckles disturbingly high pitched. “Losing your memory again was probably the best thing that could have happened to you.”

“So you’ll just wipe me as soon as I remember too much?”

The man’s eyes widen in horror while his mouth gapes but no words come out.

“Yeah, thought as much. Wasn’t worth it after all.”

Once he’s gathered his bearings again, he schools his face back into one of determination and promises: “When you remember the… the bad stuff, I’ll be with you. We’ll work through it, together.”

  


* * *

 

The next day is the best one so far of the weapon's short life. It’s grinning wide, practically so giddy with joy, it can’t even wait for Steve to visit. When its metal arm suddenly whirrs, crawling with blue energy and raw power, it takes not even a conscious thought to rip the restrains apart and jump out of bed. It does not even stop for a second to consider the pain flaring through its body or the blood seeping through the bandages.

“Steve! Steeeve!” It wants to see him, needs to see him, now!

It has a vague memory of stabbing its fingers into the thick metal of the door and simply ripping it from its frame. If it worked in the past, it’ll probably work again, so it strikes out and… with a soft hiss the door slides to the side, a split second before it can make contact, and it stumbles awkwardly forward with the momentum.

“Ste-…” It trips over a big, solid thing lying on front of the door. “Steve, what are you doing on the floor? Don’t humans sleep in beds?”

“Uh… good morning?” He greets with a gravel voice. His features try to balance caution with amusement and end up looking like a confused puppy. His golden hair rumbled, cheeks still flushed from sleep. There might even be a slight sliver of drool in the corner of his mouth.

“Steeeve!! Isn’t it great?” It falls onto its knees and takes his hand into its. “Sergeant Barnes is dead. Rumlow killed him. Wiped, wiped, wiped, wiped again.”

“…what?” And suddenly all his sorrow is back but the weapon won’t have it.

“Oh don’t look so sad, Stevie. He can’t kill you anymore, you’re safe. Bucky Barnes is dead, once and for all.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Я готов отвечать.” - “Ready to comply.” / “I'm ready to answer.”
> 
> “вставай.” - “Get up.”
> 
> Коще́й Бессме́ртный is [Koschey the deathless](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Koschei)  
>   
> “Убей всех.” - “Kill them all.”  
>   
> \---  
> I know I left some plot holes but i couldn't find the right place to fit them. So that's what the next installment will be about ^^
> 
> thank you so much for reading :)


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